The lonely sail is showing white
Among the haze of the blue sea!..
What does it search in foreign part?
What left it in the native land?..
The waves are playing, wind is whistling,
And bending mast is creaking loud,
Alas, — it does not hunt for pleasure
And nor from pleasure does it run!
Below — a bright stream of azure,
Above — a golden beam of sun,
But it, rebellious, asks for tempests
As if the tempests give a rest!
Белеет парус одинокой
В тумане моря голубом!..
Что ищет он в стране далекой?
Что кинул он в краю родном?..
Играют волны — ветер свищет,
И мачта гнется и скрыпит...
Увы! он счастия не ищет,
И не от счастия бежит!
Под ним струя светлей лазури,
Над ним луч солнца золотой...
А он, мятежный, просит бури,
Как будто в бурях есть покой!
«In the brightness of autumn evenings / here is a touching, mysterious charm: / an ominous glitter, motley trees, / a light, languorous rustle of scarlet leaves, / a hazy, quiet blueness / across the sadly orphaned world / and, presaging gathering storms, / at times a gusty snap ...»
«We live, not sensing our own country beneath us, / ten steps away they evaporate, our speeches, but where enough meet for half-conversation, / the Kremlin mountain man’s our occupation. They’re like slimy worms, his fat fingers, / his words, as solid as weights of measure. In his cockro...»
«We live, not feeling the earth beneath us / At ten paces our words evaporate. / But when there’s the will to crack open our mouths / our words orbit the Kremlin mountain man. / Murderer, peasant killer. His fingers plump as grubs. / His words drop like lead weights. / His laughing coc...»
«Our lives no longer feel ground under them. / At ten paces you can’t hear our words. But whenever there’s a snatch of talk / it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer, the ten thick worms his fingers, / his words like measures of weight, the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip, / the g...»