Today or tomorrow the snow will melt.
You lie alone beneath an enormous fur.
Shall I pity you? Your lips
have gone dry for ever.
Your drinking is difficult, your step heavy.
Every passer-by hurries away from you.
Was it with fingers like yours that Rogozhin
clutched the garden knife?
And the eyes, the eyes in your face!
Two circles of charcoal, year-old circles!
Surely when you were still young your girl
lured you into a joyless house.
Far away — in the night — over asphalt — a cane.
Doors — swing open into — night — under beating wind.
Come in! Appear! Undesired guest! Into
my chamber which is — most bright!
Не сегодня-завтра растает снег.
Ты лежишь один под огромной шубой.
Пожалеть тебя, у тебя навек
Пересохли губы.
Тяжело ступаешь и трудно пьёшь,
И торопится от тебя прохожий.
Не в таких ли пальцах садовый нож
Зажимал Рогожин?
А глаза, глаза на лице твоём —
Два обугленных прошлолетних круга!
Видно, отроком в невесёлый дом
Завела подруга.
Далеко — в ночи — по асфальту — трость,
Двери настежь — в ночь — под ударом ветра…
Заходи — гряди! — нежеланный гость
В мой покой пресветлый.
«In Germany once lived a censor / of lowly rank and title. / He blotted, struck and cancelled / and knew no other no other calling. He sniffed out harmful diction / and smeared it with Indian ink. / He guarded minds from infection / and his bosses valued his work. On a winter day in for...»
«Here sways a tree: — Farewell! — / There a house calls out: — Stranger, stay! — / The road leads forth: — Mount me, walk / on my weathered skin, stomp me with your heel, / Don't trust these houses calling you to settle down. / Trust in the tree and trust in me. / ...»
«The forties, fateful, / warring, frontline, / with funeral notices, / clattering trains. / The hum of the rails. / All is cold, high and barren. / Their houses have burned — / they’re heading east. / That’s me at the station / in my scruffy wool cap. / The star’s not stan...»
«How bare the countryside! What dearth / How stark the hamlets’ desolation... / Long-suffering country of my birth, / poor homeland of the Russian nation. Never will the stranger’s gaze / look deeper to perceive or guess / what hidden light there is that plays / and shimmers through...»