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!
«Why is the soul so lyrical / And so few are the names I love / And the ready rhythm but a miracle / Like Aquillon from above? He will raise clouds of dust in a hurry / He will leaf through the paper stack / And he will not come back — or maybe / As another he will come back? Winds of...»
«Perhaps you not need me not this minute, / Night; from sea foams of the world — / A shell without a pearl within it — / Upon your shores I have been hurled. With mists the ocean you embellish / And wordlessly you sing as well; / But you will love, and you will cherish / The pretense...»
«Oh your image, haunting me yet blurred, / In the fog I could not touch or feel. / "Goodness me" by error slipped the word / Unawares, yet heeding its appeal. Name of god, like a large bird, so intensely, / Took a flight right out of my chest. / Straight ahead the fog is steaming densely /...»
«White light falls in cold measure / In damp forest on summer day / In my heart I am slowly carrying / Sadness, like bird colored gray. What to do with a bird that is wounded? / She went silent, then died as well. / From a fogged-over belltower / Someone has stolen the bell. And here st...»