4
The blow muffled through years of
forgetting, of not knowing:
That blow reaches me now like the song of a
woman, or like horses neighing.
Through an inert building, a song of passion and
the blow comes:
dulled by forgetfulness, by not knowing which is
a soundless thicket.
It is the sin of memory, which has no eyes or
lips or flesh or nose,
the silt of all the days and nights
we have been without each other
the blow is muffled with moss and waterweed:
so ivy devours the
core of the living thing it is ruining
— a knife through a feather bed.
Window wadding, our ears are plugged with it
and with that other wool
outside windows of snow and the weight of spiritless
years: and the blow is muffled.
4
Удар, заглушённый годами забвенья,
Годами незнанья.
Удар, доходящий — как женское пенье,
Как конское ржанье,
Как страстное пенье сквозь <косное> зданье
Удар — доходящий.
Удар, заглушённый забвенья, незнанья
Беззвучною чащей.
Грех памяти нашей — безгласой, безгубой,
Безмясой, безносой!
Всех дней друг без друга, ночей друг без друга
Землёю наносной
Удар — заглушённый, замшенный — как тиной.
Так плющ сердцевину
Съедает и жизнь обращает в руину…
— Как нож сквозь перину!
…Оконною ватой, набившейся в уши,
И той, заоконной:
Снегами — годами — <пудами> бездушья
Удар — заглушённый…
А что если вдруг
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
А что если вдруг
А что если — вспомню?
«While the poet is not required / For holy sacrifice unto Apollo, / Within the bustling worldly cares / He is faint-heartedly immersed; / Silent is his sacred lyre; / His soul lies deep in wintry sleep, / And of the humble children of this world, / He is, perhaps, most humble. B...»
«Until the poet’s summoned thus / By great Apollo to be martyred, / Within the world of bustling fuss / He stays immersed and faint-hearted; / His lyre’s silent, hushed and cold, / His soul lies deep in wintry slumber, / Among the humble of the world / He is, for now, perhaps, most ...»
«Wandering the noisy streets, / Entering the crowded church, / Sitting among wild young men, / I am lost in my thoughts. I say to myself: the years will fly, / And however many are here, we shall all / Go down under the eternal vaults. / Someone's hour is already at hand. Gazing at a so...»
«Through the murk the moon is veering, / Ghost-accompanist of night, / On the melancholy clearings / Pouring melancholy light. Runs the troika with its dreary / Toneless jangling sleigh-bell on / Over dismal snow' I'm weary, / Hungry, frozen to the bone. Coachman in a homely fashion's ...»