May be, in my previous a-being,
I’ve cut the throats of my Mom and Dad,
If in this one — Lord of all the living! —
I have been doomed to suffering like that.
If I call for dogs of mine, aloud,
Or just try my own horse to see,
Not obeying all my signs and shouts,
They would promptly run away from me.
If I come to the enchanting foam
Of my native and well-known sea,
Then the sea would blacken from the woe
And fast go back, away from me.
My day looks like looks a man extinguished,
And my work — like somebody’s else strife,
Mine — is only pine of undistinguished,
Non-platonic and unworthy love.
Let the deathly languor be in action,
I’ll not stop to wait the time, when
In my future version of creation,
I’ll become a gallant knight again.
Вероятно, в жизни предыдущей
Я зарезал и отца и мать,
Если в этой — Боже Присносущий! —
Так жестоко осуждён страдать.
Если б кликнул я мою собаку,
Посмотрел на моего коня,
Моему не повинуясь знаку,
Звери бы умчались от меня.
Если б подошёл я к пене моря,
Так давно знакомой и родной,
Море почернело бы от горя,
Быстро отступая предо мной.
Каждый день мой, как мертвец, спокойный,
Все дела чужие, не мои,
Лишь томленье вовсе недостойной,
Вовсе платонической любви.
Пусть приходит смертное томленье,
Мне оно не помешает ждать,
Что в моём грядущем воплощенье
Сделаюсь я воином опять.
«Don’t pine your heart with fleeting worldly bliss, / Never be used to your sweet wife and house, / Take a last piece from your child’s dear mouth / To give to somebody, who needs. And be a slave, submissive to a word / Of him, who was your foe — the sworn, rather, / And call a beas...»
«(From "Midnight Poems") ...toi qui m'as consolé / Gerard de Nerval The blizzard had calmed in pine groves, / But, tipsy without any wines, / — Ophelia over her waters — / White silence all night sang to us. / And he, who’d been seemed not still clear, / Was then with this silen...»
«Forgotten? I’m not even wondered! / Forgotten was I hundred times, / And times, I’m in grave, were too hundred, / May be, my corps now there lies. / And Muse was too deafened and blinded, / Was rotting — a seed — in soils’ mesh, / To rise then to blue of the Highland / Lik...»
«From the strange verse where’s secret every word, / Where on the right and left a gulf’s the same, / Where under feet, like dry leaf, lays a fame — / There’s no for me salvation in the world.»