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!
«All promised him to me: / The heaven's edge, dark and kind, / And lovely Christmas sleep / And multi-ringing Easter wind, And the red branches of a twig, / And waterfalls inside a park, / And two dragonflies / On rusty iron of a bulwark. And I could not disbelieve, / That he'll befri...»
«Every evening I receive / Letter like a bride / To my dear friend I give / Response late at night. "I'll be guest of the white death / On my journey down. / You, my tender one, don't do / Harm to anyone." And there stands a giant star / Between two wood beams, / With such calmness...»
«Divine angel, who betrothed us / Secretly on winter morn, / From our sadness-free existence / Does not take his darkened eyes. For this reason we love heavens, / And fresh wind, and air so thin, / And the dark tree branches / Behind iron fence. Therefore we love the strict, / Many-...»
«Somewhere it's light and happy, there's elation, / Transparent, warm and simple life there is. / A man across the fence has conversation / With girl before the evening, and the bees / Hear only the tenderest of conversation. And we are living pompously and hard / And follow bitter rituals...»