He was born painlessly, in bless,
But we are born in awful torments,
Yet, even heavens will be stressed,
When heard the song that now floats.
Not a sweet voice, but fierce cries
Will cut the womb, so dark and heavy:
The sightless embryo denies
His coffin-like ways for behavior.
The Bible’s eastern star did not
Jet into skies in dazzling flare –
But its bright image was absorbed
By a transmuted look, forever.
Wake up, blest spirits, and arise!
We’re the reserved and bare heathens...
Pulling their hats over their eyes,
They go – the unknown wizards.
Без мук Младенец был рожден,
А мы рождаемся в мученьях,
Но дрогнет вещий небосклон,
Узнав о новых песнопеньях.
Не сладкий глас, а ярый крик
Прорежет темную утробу:
Слепой зародыш не привык,
Что путь его подобен гробу.
И не восточная звезда
Взвилась кровавым метеором,
Но впечатлелась навсегда
Она преображенным взором.
Что дремлешь, ворожейный дух?
Мы потаенны, сиры, наги...
Надвинув на глаза треух,
Бредут невиданные маги.
«I don’t know if you’re dead or still living, / If I should seek you on earth, or alas, / Sitting pensively, in the evening, / Warmly grieve for the one who has passed. All to you: Daily prayer and thought, / And insomnia’s feverish rise, / The white flock of the poems I wrote, / A...»
«I don't know if you're alive or dead. / Can you on earth be sought, / Or only when the sunsets fade / Be mourned serenely in my thought? All is for you: the daily prayer, / The sleepless heat at night, / And of my verses, the white / Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire. No-one was mor...»
«I'll leave your quiet yard and your white house — / Let life be empty and with light complete. / I'll sing the glory to you in my verse / Like not one woman has sung glory yet. / And that dear girlfriend you remember / In heaven you created for her sight, / I'm trading product that is ...»
«I have not heard the tales of Ossian, / I have not tasted age-old wine — / why then do I seem to see a field / and Scotland's murderous moon? And in the sinister silence I seem to hear / the roll-call of the raven and the harp, / and, streaming in the wind, the scarves of men-at-arms / ...»