White on the blue, the sail has gone,
to vanish with the breeze;
what does the sailor seek alone
in far-off seas?
His tackle tautens in the stress
of favouring winds astir;
alas, he seeks not happiness,
nor flies from her.
The sun is bright above; below,
the ripples curve and crease;
he, rebel, craves a storm, as though
in storm were peace.
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!
«Spring exultation, nightingales, the moon / on southern seas – they make my poor head spin / with boredom. More than that. I disappear. / The real me lives elsewhere. Far to the North. Berlin, poor Russian Paris, filthy Nice – / a dream from which I soon will find release. Petersburg. ...»
«I will gradually become trained, / March with others, day out, day in. / Will not worry about the mundane. / Following regulations feel shame. They stand – I stand. They sit – I sit. / Will remember my hundred-digit sign. / Be loyally grateful to hell for bloody / Stars in constell...»
«It is well that there’s no Tsar. / It is well that there’s no Russia. / Well, that God does not exist. Only the yellow sunrise, / Only the stars made of ice, / Only the million centuries. Well — that there is no one, / Well — that there is nothing, / So black and so lifeless, ...»
«Resplendent in their biblical glory / Above the city float the flaming clouds; / The angel that tops Peter and Paul's fortress / Looks through them into centuries massed…. But my vision is clear and it’s uncertain / What lies beyond – what dreams, sunsets, cities / Will replace the...»