I am. You will be. ’Twixt us there’s a chasm.
I drink. You thirst. Agreeing is but futile.
A decade, no, a hundred thousand years
Divide us. God above does not build bridges.
So be! Now that is my commandment. Now let
Me by. I wouldn’t want your growing stunted
Because I breathed. I am. You will be. After
Ten springs you’ll say: I am! You were — my answer...
Я — есмь. Ты — будешь. Между нами — бездна.
Я пью. Ты жаждешь. Сговориться — тщетно.
Нас десять лет, нас сто тысячелетий
Разъединяют. — Бог мостов не строит.
Будь! — это заповедь моя. Дай — мимо
Пройти, дыханьем не нарушив роста.
Я — есмь. Ты будешь. Через десять вёсен
Ты скажешь: — есмь! — а я скажу: — когда-то…
«Could I forget them? Kinfolk, / The seas? Caress a rail ticket? / For an orgy of the senses — a trap? / In a tempest — the crowd, a horde? A window, a compartment, provisions? / To get off somewhere? Unload somewhere? Settle down? / I relish the torment. — These scars! / Your lion...»
«So it begins. Year two rushes / From nurse into the darkness of melodies, / It whistles, it chirps, — then words / Begin around the third year. Thus does understanding begin. / And in the start-up noise of the turbine / It seems, that mother — is not mother. / You’re — not you, ...»
«This is how they start. At two years / They dash from their nannies into melody's darkness, / They chirp, they whistle, - and words / Appear around year three. This is how they start to understand. / And through the roar of the ignited turbine / It comes to seem that mother isn't mother. ...»
«Us few. Perhaps us three — just — / Blazing and infernal from Donets / Stuck beneath gray racing crusts / Of rain, clouds and Soviets / Of soldiers, poems and debates / About transportation and the arts. We were people. Now we’re epochs. / As time overtakes us in a rush of coaches...»