I am the Smith of everything. I lay
Lethargic bodies' balances and peers.
The luminary and sublunar spheres
I roll as dice. I calculate. I play.
Descriptions pass me by. Equations stay.
Behind your back I am; as heartbeat near.
Demonic anger's burning in the gears —
I rule this age, so bow and obey!
I paved the ways of freedom and compliance,
Amalgamated dogmas, logic, science,
All smells of truth in a convincing farce.
Hemp juice is mine, and so is poppy scatter,
And tiny balls of galaxies and stars
I threw into the boiling pot of matter.
Т. Г. Трапезникову
1
Я дух механики. Я вещества
Во тьме блюду слепые равновесья,
Я полюс сфер — небес и поднебесья,
Я гений числ. Я счётчик. Я глава.
Мне важны формулы, а не слова.
Я всюду и нигде. Но кликни — здесь я!
В сердцах машин клокочет злоба бесья.
Я князь земли! Мне знаки и права!
Я слуг свобод. Создатель педагогик.
Я — инженер, теолог, физик, логик.
Я призрак истин сплавил в стройный бред.
Я в соке конопли. Я в зёрнах мака.
Я тот, кто кинул шарики планет
В огромную рулетку Зодиака!
«Long the Tsar sat lonely, brooding. / But he, too, was only human. / Tears for one sad year he shed... / And another woman wed. / She (if one be strictly truthful) / Was a born Tsaritsa — youthful, / Slim, tall, fair to look upon, / Clever, witty — and so on. / But sh...»
«The roads to the past have long been closed, / and what is the past to me now? / What is there? Bloody slabs, / or a bricked up door, / or an echo that still could not / keep quiet, although I ask so… / The same thing happened with the echo / as with what I carry in my heart.»
«Past’s path long ago was barricaded, / Now I wonder, what for me is left? / Only grave slabs where the blood has faded / Or a crumbling doorway’s bricked up cleft, / Or an echo that cannot but tarry / Even though I plead with it to stop… / Like the one that in my heart I carry / ...»
«There’re no paths to where the former gone is. / I don’t crave for the passed by long ago. / And what is there? The lit with blood floor stones, / The immur’d and forgotten door, / Or echo which still doesn’t have any patience / To be quite mute, though I’ve prayed much for that...»