All of us — righteous and sinners,
Born in prison, raised at the altar,
All of us are funny actors
In the theater of the Creator.
The Lord sits on His throne,
Merrily follows the show.
Brightly on His sumptuous gown
Sparkles and golden stars glow.
Oh, how easy and pleasant
Is the empyrean staging!
Mary the Virgin is content,
Finds the libretto engaging:
— Hamlet? He has to be pallid.
Cain? He should be audacious…
Audience takes in angelic
Shiny victorious trumpets.
God leaning forward is watching,
He is caught up in the drama…
Pity if Cain is crying,
Hamlet will have blissful moments!
That goes against His intentions!
To avoid deviations,
God will entrust the production
Into Pain's hands, a deaf titan.
Now the pain's shooting higher
Cunningly webbing and freely,
Those who choose to retire,
Are castigated severely.
Tortures grow out of proportion
Fear and dismay — even greater;
What if continues His celebration
In the theater of the Creator.
Все мы, святые и воры,
Из алтаря и острога
Все мы — смешные актеры
В театре Господа Бога.
Бог восседает на троне,
Смотрит, смеясь, на подмостки,
Звезды на пышном хитоне —
Позолоченные блестки.
Так хорошо и привольно
В ложе предвечного света.
Дева Мария довольна,
Смотрит, склоняясь, в либретто:
«Гамлет? Он должен быть бледным.
Каин? Тот должен быть грубым…»
Зрители внемлют победным
Солнечным, ангельским трубам.
Бог, наклонясь, наблюдает,
К пьесе он полон участья.
Жаль, если Каин рыдает,
Гамлет изведает счастье!
Так не должно быть по плану!
Чтобы блюсти упущенья,
Боли, глухому титану,
Вверил он ход представленья.
Боль вознеслася горою,
Хитрой раскинулась сетью,
Всех, утомленных игрою,
Хлещет кровавою плетью.
Множатся пытки и казни…
И возрастает тревога,
Что, коль не кончится праздник
В театре Господа Бога?!
«For want of a nail the shoe was lost, / For want of a shoe the horse was lost, / For want of a horse the rider was lost, / For want of a rider the battle was lost, / For want of a battle the kingdom was lost, / And all for the want of horseshoe nail.»
«On a holiday eve, a mistress toiled / At the tomorrow's fare / She baked, and fried, and stewed, and boiled. / Etcetera... Don't care. / / The weather yet was pretty bad, / With a cold wind; therefore, / The old man from his corner said, / "Old woman, close the door". / / "Next...»
«Thought, yet more thought! Poor artist of the word, / thought’s priest! For you there can be no forgetting; / it’s all here, here are people and the world / and death and life and truth without a veil. / Ah! Chisel, cello, brush, happy the man / drawn to you by his senses, going no fur...»
«No, I’m not Byron, I’m unknown; / I am, like him, a chosen one, / an exile hounded by this world — / only I bear a Russian soul. / An early start, an early end — / little indeed will I complete; / within my heart, as in a sea, / lie shattered hopes — a sunken load. / Grim ...»