Beside their big fire they had laid themselves down,
Their powerless bodies prostrate.
A bullet had gone through the temple of one
To home in the head of his mate.
The hands of the two had locked in a vice
The now dead machine gun they’d manned,
And neither the storm nor the snow-turned-to-ice
Could break the resolve of those hands.
An officer stumbled upon the bleak pair,
He tugged at them, callously harsh.
A glance-to see how the weapon had fared,
To bid them surrender their charge.
But strange, the dead faces were not at all awed,
A joy from within them shone through...
The third of a sudden went cold when he saw
The hair-raising bliss of the two.
Они улеглись у костра своего,
Бессильно раскинув тела,
И пуля, пройдя сквозь висок одного,
В затылок другому вошла.
Их руки, обнявшие пулемет,
Который они стерегли,
Ни вьюга, ни снег, превратившийся в лед,
Никак оторвать не могли.
Тогда к мертвецам подошел офицер
И грубо их за руки взял,
Он, взглядом своим проверяя прицел,
Отдать пулемет приказал.
Но мертвые лица не сводит испуг,
И радость уснула на них...
И холодно стало третьему вдруг
От жуткого счастья двоих.
«This cannot be, / This is a forgery... / The day was so drawn out and lived to its end, / Or not lived through but exhausted?.. / This cannot be... / From that very time there has been / Some kind of lump in my throat... / Nonsense... ...»
«If a tall story suddenly came to life, I / Would place a candle in the window. Come / In... We are not going to share, I / Want to give all happiness to you! You will come even to a voice of / Sadness, because you are bright and / Tender, because the lilac and the / Moon once promised y...»
«(Winter Train) In the white field was an ashy ball, the / Shadows there were tender and desired; / A ravishing dance merged and swirled / And laid smoke on their flounces. In a turbulent sequence, screening the / Distance from me, the dancers flew past, / And there was an age-old sadness...»
«You have come for me? I am ready. We have / Transgressed, so we shall answer for it. / To us — jail, but to them — flowers... / Sun, O people, to our children! In childhood the thread of life is thinner, / The days are shorter at this time... / Do not hasten to scold them, / But sp...»