(for S. Ephron)
2
I shall lift my arms
my empty hands
through the black window
and fling myself
down the midnight clanging
of the clock tower
home. I would go home
like this: head down
from the noisy tower. Home,
not against the cobblestoned square
but into the rustling
whispering
wings of My Warrior.
2
Уроненные так давно
Вздымаю руки.
В пустое чёрное окно
Пустые руки
Бросаю в полуночный бой
Часов, — домой
Хочу! — Вот так: вниз головой
— С башни! — Домой!
Не о булыжник площадной:
В шёпот и шелест…
Мне некий Воин молодой
Крыло подстелет.
«I Smell of burning. The marshes are singeing / For four weeks, with the peat bog dried up. / And today, even birds have quit singing / And the aspen that shivered has stopped. God, Himself, sees the sun with dismay, / And since Easter, the drought has spread. / And a one-legged stranger ...»
«That voice, with silence disputing, / Has triumphed a little bit more. / Like sorrow or song in me brooding / Is the winter before the war. It was whiter than Smolny Cathedral, / More mysterious than Summer Garden. / Now, we look back at it, so ethereal, / With ultimate longing, downtro...»
«We never quite learned to part, — / We wander slowly, side by side. / Outside, it’s starting to get dark, / I’m silent, — you’re preoccupied. We’ll enter a church and see / Baptisms, marriages, mass. / A minute later, we’ll leave… / Why is everything different with us? ...»
«There the Archangel Michael / Has enrolled him in his host. / N. Gumilev. You won’t hear from him any longer, / No more letters to save. / In the fire-embraced, doleful Poland, / You won’t find his grave. Let your soul grow calm and composed, / No more loss in this war: / He’s ...»