Not a broken rib —
A broken wing.
Not to the shooters shot —
Through chest. Not to take out
This bullet. Wing can't be repaired.
He walked impaired.
***
Sticky is crown of thorns on the head!
What is the noise of mob to one dead,
The swan's down of woman's flattery...
He walked, deaf and lonely,
Freezing over the sunsets
With emptiness of eyeless statues.
But one thing still lived in him:
The broken wing.
14
Не проломанное ребро —
Переломленное крыло.
Не расстрельщиками навылет
Грудь простреленная. Не вынуть
Этой пули. Не чинят крыл.
Изуродованный ходил.
* * *
Цепок, цепок венец из терний!
Что усопшему — трепет черни,
Женской лести лебяжий пух...
Проходил, одинок и глух,
Замораживая закаты
Пустотою безглазых статуй.
Лишь одно ещё в нём жило:
Переломленное крыло.
«Once upon a time, / Somewhere far away, / Riding through the steppe, / A horseman made his way. Through the dust, he saw, / While he sped to fight, / A forest was emerging / Dreary, dark and wide. His soul cried out in worry, / And his heart would race: / Tighten up your saddle, / ...»
«A man out of the courtyard gapes, / Not knowing what to say. / Her leave was much like an escape. / The house is disarrayed. There’s chaos all around the room. / He cannot comprehend, / Because of tears, because of gloom, / The damage’s extent. He hears a ringing in his ears. / P...»
«The roads will fill with snow, / The roofs will feel its weight, / To stretch, outside I go: / There, by the door, you wait. Alone, in an autumn coat, / With nothing on your head, / You chew the snow, distraught, / And hide a nervous fret. The fences and the trees / Into the gloom wi...»
«Cold morning: the sun blurs, / Pillar of smoky fire. / And I’m indistinct too / Like a dirty snapshot. Till it gets through the murk, / Shines on the grassy pond / The trees see me poorly / Across from the far bank; A passer-by, recognised / Late, as he’s plunged in haze. / Fro...»