I’m no impostor — I’m home.
I’m no servant — I brought no leaven.
I’m — your passion, your Sunday rest,
Your seventh day, your seventh heaven.
They hung millstones round my neck,
On earth, they flung me a penny.
— Lover! — Surely you know?
I am your swallow — Psyche!
Не самозванка — я пришла домой,
И не служанка — мне не надо хлеба.
Я — страсть твоя, воскресный отдых твой,
Твой день седьмой, твоё седьмое небо.
Там на земле мне подавали грош
И жерновов навешали на шею.
— Возлюбленный! — Ужель не узнаёшь?
Я ласточка твоя — Психея!
«I blurred at once the chart of trite routine / by splashing paint with one swift motion. / I showed upon a plate of brawny glutin / the slanting cheekbones of the ocean / Upon the scales of tinny fishes / new lips summoned, though yet mute. / But could you / play / right to the finis...»
«The buzz subsides. I have come on stage. / Leaning in an open door / I try to detect from the echo / What the future has in store. A thousand opera-glasses level / The dark, point-blank, at me. / Abba, Father, if it be possible / Let this cup pass from me. I love your preordained desig...»
«February. Take ink and weep, / write February as you’re sobbing, / while black Spring burns deep / through the slush and throbbing. Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks, / through bell-towers’ and wheel noise, / go where the rain-storm’s din breaks, / greater than crying or ink emp...»
«The noise dies. I walk on stage. / Leaning on the door’s frame, / from the far echo I try to gauge / what they’ll put against my name. Night’s shadow is focused on me, / through a thousand opera-glasses. / Abba, Father, if it may be, / see that this cup passes. I love your stubbo...»