My first recall — in vague light
A fairy meadow gleams and glows.
A turkey-cock reigned there in pride
And I adored him most.
He was clothed in malice, in anger bold,
His beak blazed like scarlet flame.
But I was only four years old,
Scorned, contempted, ashamed.
No chocolate, no candies sweet,
Not even pine-apple syrup
Could deliver a brief relief
From my disgrace in front of turkey-cock.
Believe! Disaster struck again.
Pain and torment of a little child:
Angry, adored, in my heart you reigned
Rejected my love in pride.
Everything passes away in our changing life.
Love will go and pain shock...
I'll remember you with forgiving smile
As I remember that turkey-cock.
На утре памяти неверной,
Я вспоминаю пестрый луг,
Где царствовал высокомерный,
Мной обожаемый индюк.
Была в нем злоба и свобода,
Был клюв его как пламя ал,
И за мои четыре года
Меня он остро презирал.
Ни шоколад, ни карамели,
Ни ананасная вода
Меня утешить не умели
В сознаньи моего стыда.
И вновь пришла беда большая,
И стыд, и горе детских лет:
Ты, обожаемая, злая,
Мне гордо отвечаешь: «Нет!»
Но всё проходит в жизни зыбкой —
Пройдет любовь, пройдет тоска,
И вспомню я тебя с улыбкой,
Как вспоминаю индюка!
«At the gates of Zion, over Kedron, / There is a windswept hillock; / And where the wall gives temporary shade, / I happened to sit down beside a leper, / Who was eating toxic seeds. His stench was indescribable. / The fool was poisoning himself. / But he would smile, for all that, / L...»
«Endless downpour; misty wood; / Fir trees swaying: / “Oh, dear Lord!” — as if the wood were drunk, / Rain-sodden. At the window of the dark lodge / A child sits drumming with a spoon. / Mother sleeping soundly on the stove; / A calf lowing in the damp passage. / Gloomy lodge; bu...»
«Pallid young man with an ardent expression, / Listen, today I will give you three precepts. / Here is the first one: don’t live in the present, / Only the future is the sphere of the poet. Remember the second: have a feeling for no one, / Just for yourself nurture love which is boundless....»
«“Stonemason, stonemason, in your white apron, / What are you building? For whom?” / “Oh, don’t disturb us, for we’re busy working, / Building a prison — a tomb.” “Stonemason, stonemason, with your true trowel, / Who will be weeping inside?” / “Neither you nor your brot...»