I don't disturb, I do not sing
With a woman's poison. Hand
That is loyal I give to you —
Right one, that will hold the pen.
That, with which I form the cross
In the beauty of the night.
That, with which the things that God
Did command to me I write.
My left hand is daring,
Flattering and also sly.
Here to you the righteous
And right hand do proffer I.
Не смущаю, не пою
Женскою отравою.
Руку верную даю —
Пишущую, правую.
Той, которою крещу
На ночь — ненаглядную
Той, которою пишу
То, что Богом задано.
Левая — она дерзка,
Льстивая, лукавая.
Вот тебе моя рука —
Праведная, правая!
«Well, I know — in a stone house / I'm talked about, judged and fixed... / They intend my soul ardent / Thus to hold in their captive. / For the righteous suffering, / For my friends unsigned in some laws, / They'll award me the rust window / And a guard against the door.»
«Here's the ash is so hot in kind, / It will burn hard — breathe, touch, remember... / Don't cry while stepping over it and hide / Your tears, before future ash don't tremble...»
«All friends are saying: "All is good / To save from evil, rage one part of Tragedy, / One part of your soul, as thruth..." / But who has said that to divide I'm able? And how could I hide my passion in a half, / Without notion of it to be the passion? / How could I give to people only ...»
«Good poems torment me much, / Bad ones — are nice without reason: / They can't sting souls, nor they bite, / They have the warmth of home, isn't it? So — that's a real lemonad, of course, / (They're light, as a silk morning gown). / And qeniuse ones takes minute to concern, oh... ...»