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!
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«Over Moscow where the Moskva River flows, / When the hostile bombers came at night, / When for watches in the hush of dark we rose, / Then our flashlights we would always light. A sentry round the year, / From sundown till the light, / My flashlight, my companion dear, / Burn bright, bu...»
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