What if my poems, bright or gloom,
Just at beginning end?
They are all happy: brides and grooms,
One who was dying — dead.
With clear words the novels done,
End with big dots, at least;
One knows who’s a wid., Arman,
Whose daughter Lisa is.
But there is not a chance to see
The order in my hums,
They flow over chasm more free
Then dears in their jumps.
And he wouldn’t catch sight of my tears —
Who reads ans morns a lot:
The fate doesn’t set a dot at cease,
But just a blot.
Что делать с вами, милые стихи?
Кончаетесь, едва начавшись.
Счастливы все: невесты, женихи,
Покойник мертв, скончавшись.
В романах строгих ясны все слова,
В конце — большая точка;
Известно — кто Арман, и кто вдова,
И чья Элиза дочка.
Но в легком беге повести моей
Нет стройности намека,
Над пропастью летит она вольней
Газели скока.
Слез не заметит на моем лице
Читатель-плакса,
Судьбой не точка ставится в конце,
А только клякса.
«From memory of you I will remove that day, / So that your helpless-foggy look ask this: / Where did I see the Persian lilac bush, / The swallows and the wooden house? Oh, yet how often will you recollect / The sudden angst of the desires uncalled / And in the pensive cities you did seek /...»
«Did not scold me, did not praise me, / Like friends and like enemies. / Only left his soul to me / And then said, "Now keep in peace." And one thing worries me so: / If this moment he will die, / God's archangel will come to me / For his soul from the sky. How then will I hide her so, ...»
«My shadow has remained there and is angstful, / In that blue room she to this day lives, / She waits for guests from city beyond midnight / And to enamel image gives a kiss. / And things are not quite well around the house: / It still is dark, although they lit the flame... / Not from al...»
«I see capital through the flurry / On this Monday night twenty-first. / Some do-nothing has made up the story / That love exists on the earth. And from laziness or from boredom / All believed, and thus they do live: / Waiting for meeting, fearing the parting, / And singing songs of love...»