7
Like a silvery sapling
He darted upward.
That Zeus not
Espy him —
Pray!
At the first rustle
Take fear and alarm.
They are jealous of
Masculine charm.
More dreadful than the jaws
Of a beast – is their call.
The nest of the gods
Is jealous of charm.
With blossoms, with laurels
They’ll lure him aloft.
That Zeus not
Elect him —
Pray!
The whole sky in a thunder
Of eagles’ wings.
Crash down with your whole breast —
That they not conceal him.
In the aquiline thunder
— Oh beak! Oh blood! —
A miniscule lamb
Is dangling – Love…
With your hair unbound,
With your whole breast – prone!
That Zeus not
Exalt him —
Pray!
7
Ростком серебряным
Рванулся ввысь.
Чтоб не узрел его
Зевес —
Молись!
При первом шелесте
Страшись и стой.
Ревнивы к прелести
Они мужской.
Звериной челюсти
Страшней — их зов.
Ревниво к прелести
Гнездо богов.
Цветами, лаврами
Заманят ввысь.
Чтоб не избрал его
Зевес —
Молись!
Всё небо в грохоте
Орлиных крыл.
Всей грудью грохайся —
Чтоб не сокрыл.
В орлином грохоте
— О клюв! О кровь! —
Ягнёнок крохотный
Повис — Любовь…
Простоволосая,
Всей грудью — ниц…
Чтоб не вознёс его
Зевес —
Молись!
«Preserve my words forever for their aftertaste of misfortune and smoke, / for their tar of collective patience and conscientious work — / water in the wells of Novgorod must be black and sweetened / to reflect a star with seven fins at Christmas. Oh my Fatherland, my friend, my rough helper...»
«No, I will not hide from the great mess / behind the coachman's back of Moscow; / I am hanging on the outside of a terrifying time, a moving bus. / I do not know why I live. You and I, we wall go to Avenues “A” and “B,” / and see who is going to die first — / Oh Moscow, she hudd...»
«My eyelash prickles — a tear boils up from my chest. / I’m not afraid. I know what’s on the calendar — a storm. / Someone marvelous is hurrying me on to forget everything. / It's stuffy here. It's boring how much I want to live. At the first noise I lift my head from the bunks. / I ...»
«Everything rests on your small shoulders: / the sidelong glances of conscience, / our dangerous, wolfish simplicity — / my words, like a drowned woman, are dumb. Red fins shining, red gills fanning, / their wondering mouths rounded in wordless / and famished O’s, the fish fin here and...»