Your stripe will be harvested
By which person's arms?
O the black magician you!
My black-plaited one!
Your tumultuous century,
And your midnight days...
All your little workers are
At once born away.
Where are your campaigner friends,
Your comrades in arms?
O the black magician you,
My one with white arms!
Not with glory, not with tears
Can one heal those graves.
One, as though he had been choked,
Walked around alive.
One more went into a wall
Himself to advance.
(He was proud - a falcon!) - They
Knocked him out at once.
High above your brothers are!
Can't exude a cry!
O the black magician you,
My one with clear eyes!
And from out the cloud (praise
Marvel from above!)
Arrow of a falcon falls,
Arrow of a dove...
To know, in two feathers at once
People to you write,
Know, that soon you will receive
A certificate,
O the boulders! They will shake
With their wings,
O the black magician you!
My one with black wings!
Кем полосынька твоя
Нынче выжнется?
Чернокосынька моя!
Чернокнижница!
Дни полночные твои,
Век твой таборный…
Все работнички твои
Разом забраны.
Где сподручники твои,
Те сподвижнички?
Белорученька моя,
Чернокнижница!
Не загладить тех могил
Слезой, славою.
Один заживо ходил —
Как удавленный.
Другой к стеночке пошёл
Искать прибыли.
(И гордец же был-соко́л!)
Разом выбыли.
Высоко твои братья́!
Не докличешься!
Яснооконька моя,
Чернокнижница!
А из тучи-то (хвала —
Диво дивное!)
Соколиная стрела,
Голубиная…
Знать, в два пёрышка тебе
Пишут тамотка,
Знать, уж в скорости тебе
Выйдет грамотка:
— Будет крылышки трепать
О булыжники!
Чернокрылонька моя!
Чернокнижница!
«Meditations have words that are soundless; / How I love to seek them in the silence! / It is necessary only that, / black and lifeless, / Night should forget itself more fully, / Night should forget itself faster / Among its spar...»
«Dors, dors, mon enfant! Don’t disturb him in the dim early hours, / Warm his sleepiness with a kiss... / But yourself-all shivering, rise: You / Alone, you are ruling... But faster! / For you I animated a dream, / And its minutes are numbered... / . . . . . / ...»
«A birch tree lived in the park’s scanty brushwood, / As dark and dry as dejection... / In a May noon there a girl took off her hat. / And her plait fell loose. Her dear one / Completed the patterned open-work / By laughingly hanging the floral / Hat on a branch of the birch. / . . . ...»
«. . . . . . . . . . . . . / And all night there hazes meandered across the moon, / And all night someone pitifully sensitive dozed / On the seat there, his derby hat pulled down low. / . . . . . . . . . . . . . / And towards daybreak, in the milky fog / There was hanging on the birch a /...»