The barren slope of the meandering valley
Is overgrown with hoary, wiry grass.
Spurge shows up white. Eroded beds of clay
Reveal the sparkling lead and shale and mica.
The water-worn and slaty walls sprout capers;
A crevice clasps the olive’s withered trunk;
Above the hill, the violet Karadag
Rears up his summits in a jagged ridge.
The sultriness has wrapped the hills in haze.
The fumes of grass, mercurial reflections,
The screams of cicadae and birds of prey —
Make dull the senses, cause the heat to quaver...
And yonder, through their yawning orbits, gaze
The trampled-out eyes of a colossal Face.
Травою жёсткою, пахучей и седой
Порос бесплодный скат извилистой долины.
Белеет молочай. Пласты размытой глины
Искрятся грифелем, и сланцем, и слюдой.
По стенам шифера, источенным водой,
Побеги каперсов; иссохший ствол маслины;
А выше за холмом лиловые вершины
Подъемлет Карадаг зубчатою стеной.
И этот тусклый зной, и горы в дымке мутной,
И запах душных трав, и камней отблеск ртутный,
И злобный крик цикад, и клёкот хищных птиц —
Мутят сознание. И зной дрожит от крика…
И там — во впадинах зияющих глазниц
Огромный взгляд растоптанного Лика.
«Farewell, dear friend, farewell — / you’re present in my heart. / We’ll meet again, the stars foretell, / though now we have to part. Goodbye for now, goodbye, dear friend — / no handshake, words or grief. / To die is nothing new — but then, / what new is there in life?»
«Careful, puss, there’s an owl / embroidered on the chair. / Grey puss, don’t growl — / or Grandpa will hear. / The candle’s gone out; / there are mice on the stair. / I’m afraid of the owl. / Nanny, who put it there?»
«Everything’s changed, nothing has changed / in the strange chill, strange chill of dawn. / I’ve dreamed many dreams over the years / and now I awake – with the years all gone. Here we go, here I stand in an autumn field / (changed, unchanged, I don’t understand) — / as if I’ve...»
«O Muse of Weeping... / — M. Tsvetaeva I have turned aside from everything, / From the whole earthly store. / The spirit and guardian of this place / is an old tree-stump in water. We are brief guests of the earth, as it were, / And life is a habit we put on. / On paths of air I seem ...»