How many of earth’s oceans I’ve sailed, oceans
ancient, gay, foam-covered;
how many matchless nights and days
have gone guiding caravans across the steppes...
How we laughed, then,
my Muse and I, free...
Rhymes flew together like birds,
so many — I don’t dare remember how many.
Only love is left, calling
like the strings of an angel’s harp,
like a thin needle stabbing the heart
with Heaven’s blue lights.
Only you are left. I’ve seen,
my eyes open, the night’s sun,
and you are all I live for,
work for, fight for.
In this restless hell of mine — yes,
you are the pilgrims’ Jerusalem.
I should mention your name
with a seraphim’s tongue.
В скольких земных океанах я плыл,
Древних, веселых и пенных,
Сколько в степях караваны водил
Дней и ночей несравненных…
Как мы смеялись в былые года
С вольною Музой моею…
Рифмы, как птицы, слетались тогда,
Сколько — и вспомнить не смею.
Только любовь мне осталась, струной
Ангельской арфы взывая,
Душу пронзая, как тонкой иглой,
Синими светами рая.
Ты мне осталась одна. Наяву
Видевший солнце ночное,
Лишь для тебя на земле я живу,
Делаю дело земное.
Да, ты в моей беспокойной судьбе —
Ерусалим пилигримов.
Надо бы мне говорить о тебе
На языке серафимов.
«Oh, if it’s true that in the night / When living men are sleeping, / And from the sky the pale moonlight / Slides over the gravestones, / Oh, if it’s only true that at that time / The silent graves open, / I call the shade of Leila and wait for her: / To me, my dear, come here to m...»
«The moon's cold gold, / The perfume of the oleander and gillyflowers. / It's pleasant to wander in such calmness / Of a blue gentle land. Faraway there's Baghdad, / Where Scheherazada lived and sang. / But now she needs nothing, / An ancient rung garden has rung away. The faraway lands...»
«In Horossan there are such doors, / Where the porch is thrown over with roses. / There, lives a thoughtful peri. / In Horossan there are such doors, / But I couldn't open those doors. I have enough force in my hands, / And in my hair both gold and bronze. / The peri's voice is tender an...»
«The blue motherland Firdusi, / You cannot, have cooled down in your memory, / Forget about the tender Urus / And about the eyes, thoughtfully simple, / The blue motherland Firdusi. You are good, Persia, I know, / The roses like lanterns, are burning / And again I'm old about the far lan...»