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!
«Far off at sea the sails were roving. / Oblivious to the heat, plane-trees / Unfolded their flowers slowly / And lost them to November breezes. I n the old park the branches crowded / Over a bench with whitewashed planes; / The smell of grapes seemed like a cloud / Embracing Georgian wo...»
«Today has not yet come, / And yesterday has melted. / The morning's face is wan: / An actress with no make-up. Her eyelids puffed, the dawn / Is creeping, nude and moody, / And with a weary yawn / Sinks into daily duties... Wise mornings have no haste: / The day is barely shaping, / ...»
«In the evenings, the sultry air above the restaurants / is both wild and torpid, / and drunken vociferations are governed / by the evil spirit of spring. In the dusty vista of lanes / where reigns the suburban tedium of clapboard villas / the gilt sign of a bakery — a giant pretzel — ...»
«Of evenings hangs above the restaurant / A humid, wild and heavy air. / The Springtide spirit, brooding, pestilent, / Commands the drunken outcries there. Far off, above the alley's mustiness, / Where bored gray summerhouses lie, / The baker's sign swings gold through dustiness, / And l...»