In memory of A. Blok and N. Gumilyov
Day by day more brutal and more savage,
Deathly horror holds the night in thrall.
Putrid winds extinguish lives like candles.
No more strength to scream, to help, to call.
Dark the destiny of Russian poets
And inscrutable the roads they trod:
Pushkin stood before a dueling pistol,
Dostoevsky faced the firing squad.
I shall draw my lot and know my fortune,
Bitter Russia, fierce infanticide:
I may slip on blood outside the dungeon,
Or may perish wretchedly inside,
But your Golgotha I never will abandon,
And your graves shall never be denied.
Whether slain by hunger or by hatred —
I shall choose no other lot instead:
If we die, then let us die together,
And arise like Lazarus from the dead.
Памяти А. Блока и Н. Гумилёва
С каждым днём всё диче и всё глуше
Мертвенная цепенеет ночь.
Смрадный ветр, как свечи, жизни тушит:
Ни позвать, ни крикнуть, ни помочь.
Тёмен жребий русского поэта:
Неисповедимый рок ведёт
Пушкина под дуло пистолета,
Достоевского на эшафот.
Может быть, такой же жребий выну,
Горькая детоубийца — Русь!
И на дне твоих подвалов сгину,
Иль в кровавой луже поскользнусь,
Но твоей Голгофы не покину,
От твоих могил не отрекусь.
Доконает голод или злоба,
Но судьбы не изберу иной:
Умирать, так умирать с тобой,
И с тобой, как Лазарь, встать из гроба!
«My fields, my wave-like, foaming fields! / With autumn spinach, brown as if of bricks, / And lettuce, clover, heather and daisy. / How much the eyes can hear and ears can see! I walk along the side of the river. / The wildflowers shine like sapphire / Leaning beneath the wheats golden fra...»
«Youre in no way like other women at all: / You have laughter controlled and expressive, / You wear dresses measured and fashionably long / And you slip out from my embraces. You do not cut your hair to look upscale, / Deepen brows or wear make up, / You have Smirnoff, but also a nightinga...»
«My dear Felissochka! My most exquisite! / I give you "Minstrel" and all my dreams. / You are beloved by all thats delicate, / My sweet Felissa — My violin! May to the crude one you be an egotist — / I care not: You are most loved by me! / My most talented! My sweet Felissochka! / My...»
«In violet and purple bloomed the lilac, / The lilac bloomed in pink and white and pale. / We headed toward it on a tortuous trail / Across an ancient fur and furrowed park. Sea to the left; river ahead, and hills — / Behind; the blooming lilacs on the mounts / Weave from the gentle smel...»