Not for flattering chausibles, frocks of lies —
I was born in this world with loud voice!
Wide awake — not the night dreams for me!
I don't live, like you, whisperingly!
From you, whisper-whisper, I have —
Lyre, lyre, a swan's curve!
With laurel, with dawn, with winds one
I make merry, I'm not a nun!
And the boy - is fair-haired, is not dumb!
And especially to wrong side it has gone —
From you, whisper-whisper, I have —
Lyre, lyre, a swan's curve!
Heavy, I hear, is woman's role!
I don't know — did not put on the scale!
My product is a gift, not for sale,
But with blueness will run my nail —
From you, scream-and-wheezing, I have —
Lyre, lyre, a swan's curve!
Не для льстивых этих риз, лживых ряс —
Голосистою на свет родилась!
Не ночные мои сны — наяву!
Шипом-шёпотом, как вы, не живу!
От тебя у меня, шёпот-тот-шип —
Лира, лира, лебединый загиб!
С лавром, с зорями, с ветрами союз,
Не монашествую я — веселюсь!
И мальчишка — недурён-белокур!
Ну, а накривь уж пошло чересчур, —
От тебя у меня, шёпот-тот-шип —
Лира, лира, лебединый загиб!
Доля женская, слыхать, тяжела!
А не знаю — на весы не брала!
Не продажный мой товар — даровой!
Ну, а ноготь как пойдёт синевой, —
От тебя у меня, клёкот-тот-хрип —
Лира, лира, лебединый загиб!
«Smiling nervously but brightly, / conscious of her youth and fame, / she set the way that she was asked to / indifferently — or playing games. Under heaven's dome's eternal childhood / April nineteen hundred twelve / has promised her in Ospedaletti / only prosperity and s...»
«Marina, how I love to know that / like everyone else, like me – / who cannot speak now through my frozen throat / because to speak of it is like swallowing ice – / to know that you, a creature of light! of snow! / were like the rest of us, given lessons in music. / And there was a wa...»
«Now on three sides the darkness grows deeper / with the coming of dawn, and still my / hand has no courage to reach through the solid / air to the white paper on the table. For reason can not honestly resist my / sense of limitation! Now I cannot / let my hand wrote any of those careless ...»
«Winter, to me your gestures are / cold and careful: yes, in / winter there is something / gentle as medicine, or why else would sickness / put out trusting hands / into that season, from its own / torture and darkness? Weave your magic then / my love, let the kiss / of one curl of ...»