Thus swam the head and lyre down
To the receding far-off place.
And lips repeated: pity, pity,
And the lyre enounced: «Peace»
Bloody-silver, silver-and-bloody
And double trace she did then pour,
My tender brother, my dear sister
Along the paralyzed Gebr.
At times, the movement of head slowed
Inside the unabated angst.
But lyre assured: do pass me near!
And lips behind her said, «Alas!»
Moving together like a garland
With far-off rippling head of bed —
Do not the hair pour with silver?
Does not the lyre pour with blood?
Thus, with a staircase descending
Of river — into crib of swells.
Thus, to new island, where it's sweeter
Than somewhere — lies a nightingale...
Where then are they, the holy remnants?
The salty wave — respond, respond!
Maybe the net has pulled it out,
Net of bare-headed Lesbian?
Так плыли: голова и лира,
Вниз, в отступающую даль.
И лира уверяла: мира!
А губы повторяли: жаль!
Крово-серебряный, серебро-
Кровавый след двойной лия,
Вдоль обмирающего Гебра —
Брат нежный мой, сестра моя!
Порой, в тоске неутолимой,
Ход замедлялся головы.
Но лира уверяла: мимо!
А губы ей вослед: увы!
Вдаль-зыблящимся изголовьем
Сдвигаемые как венцом —
Не лира ль истекает кровью?
Не волосы ли — серебром?
Так, лестницею нисходящей
Речною — в колыбель зыбей.
Так, к острову тому, где слаще
Чем где-либо — лжёт соловей…
Где осиянные останки?
Волна солёная — ответь!
Простоволосой лесбиянки
Быть может вытянула сеть? —
«The blackened skies have reached the garden walk; / Yet my poor heart tonight cannot be not the restless… / The lights that have been failed, the lost of sounds talk, / Are they the remnants of the dream in sadness? Oh, how sad it was, the satin of her dress, / Her breast was very white, ...»
«They faded, the last bands of reddish, / Like whispers of prayers in night, / O tale, such seductive and maddish, / What else do you want of this heart? Are not, beyond measure and count, / So hard in the snows my ways? / Aren’t gray empty spaces around? / Isn’t husky the ring of t...»
«How dark and heavy’s the delirium’s embrace! / How they’re turbid under moon — the heights! / To have touched Violin for so many years / And not distinguish those Strings in light! Who craves for us? Who, insolent, has set / In flames two faces, yellow and vexed, / And sudden...»
«Don’t you have the strange vision sometimes / (When a dark penetrates in a house) / Of another existence for us, / Where we live in the other life’s phases? There, a shade’s softly pressed to a shade, / And such wonderful minute there hovers, / Where as if, through the beams by eye...»