Soul, scorning all measure
Singer of heresy, martyr
longing for the whip’s lashing.
Soul, you greet your assassin
like a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis,
nor can you brook this offense:
that wizards are not still burnt.
Smoking under your hair shirt
like a resinate high wick
screeching heretic
sister of Savonarola.
Soul,
You deserve the stake!
Душа, не знающая меры,
Душа хлыста и изувера,
Тоскующая по бичу.
Душа — навстречу палачу,
Как бабочка из хризалиды!
Душа, не съевшая обиды,
Что больше колдунов не жгут.
Как смоляной высокий жгут
Дымящая под власяницей…
Скрежещущая еретица,
— Саванароловой сестра —
Душа, достойная костра!
«In every day there is such / A murky and irksome hour. / I speak loudly to melancholy, / Not having opened my sleepy eyes. / And it pulsates like blood, / Like the sigh of warmth, / Like happy love, / Smart and evil.»
«There is an utter mark in the people's nearness, / Which can't be crossed by love and passion, — / But in the striking silence lips become one / And the heart is torn apart by love. And here friendship is helpless, / And the mountain of high and flaming happiness, / When the soul is fre...»
«Wild honey the scent of freedom has, / Dust — the sunshine beam, / Violet — the mouth of a girl, / And gold — has nothing. Minionette, the scent of water / And love — the apple. / But forever we learnt, / That blood has but the scent of blood.»
«Slowly does the river along the valley flow, / A house there is on the hill, of many windows. / And here we'll live like in Catherine's times: / Attend the services and greet the crops. / Having endured a two day parting, / Coming is he, a guest, along the golden wheatfield. / And in the...»