I dedicate these lines to
Those who will arrange my coffin.
When you open my high,
Hated forehead.
Changed unnecessarily,
By a crown on my head, —
My own heart alien
Will I lie in the coffin.
They will not look at my face:
«I hear all! Can see all!
My being in that coffin still hurts
Being like them.»
In a white gown — in childhood's
Unloved color! —
Will I lie — with someone for company? —
Until the end of my years.
Listen! — I do not accept!
This — trap!
It will not be me you bury,
Not me.
I know! - All will be burnt to ashes!
And the grave will shelter
Nothing, that I loved,
or lived.
Посвящаю эти строки
Тем, кто мне устроит гроб.
Приоткроют мой высокий,
Ненавистный лоб.
Изменённая без нужды,
С венчиком на лбу,
Собственному сердцу чуждой
Буду я в гробу.
Не увидят на лице:
«Всё мне слышно! Всё мне видно!
Мне в гробу ещё обидно
Быть как все».
В платье белоснежном — с детства
Нелюбимый цвет! —
Лягу — с кем-то по соседству? —
До скончанья лет.
Слушайте! — Я не приемлю!
Это — западня!
Не меня опустят в землю,
Не меня.
Знаю! — Всё сгорит дотла!
И не приютит могила
Ничего, что я любила,
Чем жила.
«On heavenly blue course, a fiery star — / As if ready to char the forests and perish / With them in yellow clouds of honeyed / Smoke, the sun prepares for a rest. / Dreamy night falls. People fall asleep. / Only I torment myself. I wish; I weep... Among the clouds, the tall evergreens /...»
«Behind the cloudy horizon — just / like future in my heavenly chart — / who can see if the coming gusts / will bring a rest for my heart. Or the grey clouds returning / will bring more dread to my heart. / The old wounds, fireless burning, / old sorrows again will smart. Behind the...»
«No regret I feel, no pain, no sorrow, / Blossom blows away, a song is sung. / Overcome by autumn gold, tomorrow / I myself shall be no longer young. You'll not throb, heart, as before, but tremble, / Feeling chills that you have not yet known. / In bare feet you shall no more be tempted /...»
«The river quietly dreams. / Dark forest stands still. / Crake doesn’t scream. / And nightingales don’t trill. It’s a night of silence. / The rill hardly makes a sound, / While moon’s brilliance / Silvers everything around. Silver shines the river. / Silver shines the rill. / ...»