That same youth, and these same holes,
And the same nights at the fire...
Sister of your own guitar
Is my divine, holy lyre.
To circle souls just like a snowstorm —
One is the gift that us befalls.
Into my sleeping crib is lowered
This title: Stealer of souls!
Breaking the arms in angst, you know:
Not one alone in the day's fog
With poison gypsy broth of parting
The young noblemen you do drug.
Know: not alone on the sharp knife
You look with anguish in your blood
Know, I'm alone still... we are sisters
In the great lowliness of love.
Та ж молодость, и те же дыры,
И те же ночи у костра...
Моя божественная лира
С твоей гитарою — сестра.
Нам дар один на долю выпал:
Кружить по душам, как метель.
— Грабительница душ! — Сей титул
И мне опущен в колыбель!
В тоске заламывая руки,
Знай: не одна в тумане дней
Цыганским варевом разлуки
Дурманишь молодых князей.
Знай: не одна на ножик вострый
Глядишь с томлением в крови, —
Знай, что еще одна... — Что сестры
В великой низости любви.
«Always a slave, but with the birthplace of kings on / a swarthy chest. / And a state seal in exchange for / an earring. / A young woman with a sword, who never conceived, / Or a midwife — the crone of mutin...»
«I The Sayan rolls with one swell after another, / And with shores of chalk. / Here, is the brooding of the past, / Where time has turned numb. / Above, with a vast blanket, / The sails rustle ominously, / A shuttle boat perturbs the second / Sky of the river with its hulk bottom. / ...»
«1 I break the layered rocks / In the hour when the silty day / Is moulded, and my tired mule carries / The weighty lumps on its shaggy back. We carry them to the railroad, / Put them in a heap, — and to the sea again / The hairy legs lead us, / And the mule starts braying. And it br...»
«The city took off its wintery things. / The snows turned slobbery. / Spring has come again, / foolish and loose-tongued / as an army cadet.»