The sailors near the port
shouted in chorus, demanding wine,
and over Stambul and over the Bosphorus
the full moon shone.
Tonight they will hurl an unfaithful wife
to the bottom of the bay,
a wife who was too beautiful
and looked like the moon.
She loved her daydreams,
the summer-house in the reed thicket,
old women fortune-tellers and their fortune-telling
and everything the Pasha did not like.
Father was sad, but understands
and whispers to the husband: «Well, is it time?»,
but the younger sister does not lift
her stubborn eyes and muses:
«Many, many other lovers
lie in the deep bays,
intertwined, languid and silent...
What happiness to be among them!»
Еще близ порта орали хором
Матросы, требуя вина,
А над Стамбулом и над Босфором
Сверкнула полная луна.
Сегодня ночью на дно залива
Швырнут неверную жену,
Жену, что слишком была красива
И походила на луну.
Она любила свои мечтанья,
Беседку в чаще камыша,
Старух гадальщиц, и их гаданья,
И все, что не любил паша.
Отец печален, но понимает
И шепчет мужу: «что ж, пора?»
Но глаз упрямых не поднимает,
Мечтает младшая сестра:
— Так много, много в глухих заливах
Лежит любовников других,
Сплетенных, томных и молчаливых…
Какое счастье быть средь них!
«I was born not late and not early, / This time is blessed and meet, / Only God did not allow a heart / To live long without deceit. And from this it is dark in the light room, / And from this do the friends I've sought, / Like the sorrowful birds of evening, / Sing of love that was not.»
«Not thus, from cursed lightness having disembarked, / I look with worry on the chambers dark? / Already used to ringing high and raw, / Already judged not by the earthly law, / I, like a criminal, am being drawn along / To place of shame and execution. / I see the glorious city, and the ...»
«Best for me loudly the gaming-poems to say, / And for you the hoarse harmonica to play! And having left, hugging, for the night of late, / Lose a band from a stiff, tight plait. Best for me your child to rock and sway, / And for you to make fifty rubles in a day, And to go on memory day to ...»
«I will lead a man to the dear one — / I don't wish for the little joy — / And I'll quietly lay to sleep / The glad, tired little boy. In a chilly room once again / I will pray to the Mother of God, / It is hard to be a recluse, / To be happy is also hard. Only fiery sleep will com...»