Did I murder my father, murder my mother,
in some other life ?
Yes, oh immortal, eternal God, yes! or how
could I deserve this disgrace of suffering?
I lead a life as peaceful as death,
everything I do belongs to someone else, nothing
to me—except a languid, worthless,
distinctly platonic love...
Oh to run, to hide like a thief
— in Africa, as I hid before, to lie
beneath some royal sycamore
and never rise.
Darkness would wrap me in velvet,
the moon would dress me in silver,
and maybe the wind could forget
that, once, I worked in an office.
Вероятно, в жизни предыдущей
Я зарезал и отца и мать,
Если в этой — Боже Присносущий! —
Так позорно осужден страдать.
Каждый день мой, как мертвец, спокойный,
Все дела чужие, не мои,
Лишь томленье вовсе недостойной,
Вовсе платонической любви.
Ах, бежать бы, скрыться бы, как вору,
В Африку, как прежде, как тогда,
Лечь под царственную сикомору
И не подниматься никогда.
Бархатом меня покроет вечер,
А луна оденет в серебро,
И быть может не припомнит ветер,
Что когда-то я служил в бюро.
«To worship someone is my aspiration. / Imagine, just a simple ant of mine / Felt suddenly like kneeling in prostration, / Believing in his touch with the divine. The ant then was bereft of peace and calmness, / So everyday was everything he saw / That lastly, in his image, in his likeness...»
«While the Earth is still spinning, / While light still has not turned black, / God, may you give to everyone / Whatever they may lack: / A head to the man of wisdom, / A horse to the cowardly, / Money to him who’s happy... / And don’t forget about me. While the Earth is still spin...»
«Fires rage in the ominous battle, / The hussars are built up for the fight. / Time for horses to be under saddle, / For the lucky day’s finally in sight. The commander’s ahead, brand-new dolman shines red, / Squadron follows his lead, winter boredom is shed… / And for the young huss...»
«Into the house he came at last / Where she’d dreamed of him as years came and passed, / Where for an age he’d yearned to be / For she had so decided, and so had he. I swear this must’ve been love indeed, / Take a look: you will recognize its deed. / But listen, go call on the Heaven...»