The stoop of oaks lifts up the chrome of clouds.
Cliffs harbour alcoves, niches, grottos deep.
And rain and wind and heat have left their traces
Into these stones engraved. A sketch is grooved
Onto the slope, crayoned by lichen, framed by moss,
And walls of rock rise up as icon-cases.
The cinnabar and niello here, yonder —
Vestiges of gilding and of icons
The cryptic visages time-worn...
Дубы нерослые подъемлют облак крон.
Таятся в толще скал теснины, ниши, гроты,
И дождь, и ветр, и зной следы глухой работы
На камне врезали. Источен горный склон,
Расцвечен лишаём и мохом обрамлён,
И стены высятся, как древние киоты:
И чернь, и киноварь, и пятна позолоты,
И лики стёртые неведомых икон.
«That evening organ’s arcing forest didn’t grumble — / The trees sang Schubert to us, their own cradle’s sound. / The windmill whispered, and in tempest’s stirring rumble / Was blue-eyed drunkenness of music’s laughter found. The world of ancient song is coloured green and russet /...»
«Lived Alexander Gertsevich, / Musician and a Jew – / He ground the works of Schubert out / Like diamond, pure and true. He gaily played by day and night / A crackling piece he’d learned, / The one sonata’s tune that he / Had memorised he churned. What, Alexander Gertsevich, / H...»
«Where is the terrifying place / We’re bound for, Comrade Bigmouth-face? How crumbles our tobacco blend, / My nut-cracking foolish friend! A starling’s whistle might get us by, / We’ll have our fill of a nutty pie… However it goes, it’ll end.»
«Above at frightening height there burns a roaming fire! / Is it a star that blazes, flying? / This star’s transparent, and it burns with roaming fire — / Petropolis, your brother’s dying! Above at frightening height our worldly dreams now fry, / An emerald star through night is flying...»