We shall not escape Hell, my passionate
sisters, we shall drink black resins —
we who sang our praises to the Lord
with every one of our sinews, even the finest,
we did not lean over cradles or
spinning wheels at night, and now we are
carried off by an unsteady boat
under the skirts of a sleeveless cloak,
we dressed every morning in
fine Chinese silk, and we would
sing our paradisal songs at
the fire of the robbers’ camp,
slovenly needlewomen, (all
our sewing came apart), dancers,
players upon pipes: we have been
the queens of the whole world!
first scarcely covered by rags,
then with constellations in our hair, in
gaol and at feasts we have
bartered away heaven,
in starry nights, in the apple
orchards of Paradise.
— Gentle girls, my beloved sisters,
we shall certainly find ourselves in Hell!
Быть в аду нам, сёстры пылкие,
Пить нам адскую смолу, —
Нам, что каждою-то жилкою
Пели Господу хвалу!
Нам, над люлькой да над прялкою
Не клонившимся в ночи,
Уносимым лодкой валкою
Под полою епанчи.
В тонкие шелка китайские
Разнаряженным с утра,
Заводившим песни райские
У разбойного костра.
Нерадивым рукодельницам
— Шей не шей, а всё по швам! —
Плясовницам и свирельницам,
Всему миру — госпожам!
То едва прикрытым рубищем,
То в созвездиях коса.
По острогам да по гульбищам
Прогулявшим небеса.
Прогулявшим в ночи звёздные
В райском яблочном саду…
— Быть нам, девицы любезные,
Сёстры милые — в аду!
«Monster war, take a look at your handiwork: / In our courtyards the silence is keen. / Our young boys have grown serious suddenly. / All at once, much too soon, they are men. / We got barely a glimpse of the somber eyes / When as soldiers they left, one by one. / It's time for goodb...»
«We've a doorway with a staircase, / Also known as a "back door". / In that place as in a palace / A black cat has set up store. There's a smirk beneath his whiskers, / Darkness fits him like a glove. / Other cats are coy or frisky, / This black cat won't make a move. As his leer ge...»
«All along the Smolensk Road trees rise and rise and rise. / All along the Smolensk Road posts stand mid trees, mid trees. / Just above the Smolensk Road I think those are your eyes: / Two cold evening stars, my two blue destinies. All along the Smolensk Road the snow slaps face, slaps face...»
«(The Little Orchestra of Hope) When all at once, the sound of trumpets / Still faint, commands a fierce grip, / When sudden words like midnight falcons / Swoop down from the fevered lips, / When melody bursts out, unbidden, / It wanders side by side with men: / The little orchestra ...»