You throw back your head, because
you are proud. And a braggart.
This February has
brought me a gay companion!
Clattering with gold pieces, and
slowly puffing out smoke, we
walk like solemn foreigners
throughout my native city.
And whose attentive hands have
touched your eyelashes, beautiful boy, and
when or how many times your
lips have been kissed
I do not ask. That dream my thirsty
spirit has conquered. Now
I can honour in you the
divine boy, ten years old!
Let us wait by the river that
rinses the coloured beads of street-lights:
I shall take you as far as the square
that has witnessed adolescent Tsars.
Whistle out your boyish
pain, your heart squeezed in your hand.
My indifferent and crazy creature —
now set free — goodbye!
Ты запрокидываешь голову —
Затем, что ты гордец и враль.
Какого спутника весёлого
Привёл мне нынешний февраль!
Позвякивая карбованцами
И медленно пуская дым,
Торжественными чужестранцами
Проходим городом родным.
Чьи руки бережные нежили
Твои ресницы, красота,
Когда, и как, и кем, и много ли
Целованы твои уста —
Не спрашиваю. Дух мой алчущий
Переборол сию мечту.
В тебе божественного мальчика —
Десятилетнего я чту.
Помедлим у реки, полощущей
Цветные бусы фонарей.
Я доведу тебя до площади,
Видавшей отроков-царей…
Мальчишескую боль высвистывай
И сердце зажимай в горсти…
— Мой хладнокровный, мой неистовый
Вольноотпущенник — прости!
«The sailors near the port / shouted in chorus, demanding wine, / and over Stambul and over the Bosphorus / the full moon shone. Tonight they will hurl an unfaithful wife / to the bottom of the bay, / a wife who was too beautiful / and looked like the moon. She loved her daydreams, / ...»
«Describing circle after circle, / The wheeling kite looks down upon / A dream-like, empty meadow. A mother / Grieves in the cabin for her son: / “Here, suck this breast, here, take this bread. / Grow up, be humble, trust in God.” The ages pass, endless war rages, / Revolt flares, vi...»
«Over the empty fields a black kite hovers, / And circle after circle smoothly weaves. / In the poor hut, over her son in the cradle / A mother grieves: / “There, suck my brest: there grow and take our bread, / And learn to bear your cross and bow your head.” Time passes. War returns. ...»
«1. Black night. / White snow. / The wind, the wind! / Impossible to stay on your feet. / The wind, the wind! / Blowing across God’s world! The wind swirls round / The clean, white snow. / Under the snow — there’s ice. / It’s sl...»