Their souls' love near the sea was born
In sacred groves of virgin devotees,
Where the play of strings and agile breeze
Competes with joyful songs from dusk till dawn.
The Priest... Unlikely human shape
Could be that weird handsome...
His lips were shut; his look was awesome;
And on his head — a scarf of bloody shade.
When hazes came upon the sea,
The Priest started sacred rite.
And dancing virgins, pliable and bright
Shined on the shore as necklace pearly.
The one of them, more beautiful than fairy,
The Priest distinguished more...
Oh, he forgot that elegance may draw,
That bloody scarf can make you so hungry.
Before the dawn, beneeth the blinking stars
The Priest forgot his vow.
Her honey lips did not say «no».
Her eyes rejected not his love.
Banished by others, they were gone
From shadows of sacred groves.
The strength abandoned their souls,
Since then they live with love alone.
Любовь их душ родилась возле моря,
В священных рощах девственных наяд,
Чьи песни вечно-радостно звучат,
С напевом струн, с игрою ветра споря.
Великий жрец… страннее и суровей
Едва ль была людская красота,
Спокойный взгляд, сомкнутые уста
И на кудрях повязка цвета крови.
Когда вставал туман над водной степью,
Великий жрец творил святой обряд,
И танцы гибких, трепетных наяд
По берегу вились жемчужной цепью.
Средь них одной, пленительней, чем сказка,
Великий жрец оказывал почет.
Он позабыл, что красота влечет,
Что опьяняет красная повязка.
И звезды предрассветные мерцали,
Когда забыл великий жрец обет,
Ее уста не говорили «нет»,
Ее глаза ему не отказали.
И, преданы клеймящему злословью,
Они ушли из тьмы священных рощ
Туда, где их сердец исчезла мощь,
Где их сердца живут одной любовью.
«The eyes are the arch of the grey autumn sky, / The sky that lost sparkle and froze. / And under its weight, bent and trampled I lie. / And that's how her love for me goes. Farewell, no more mercy, it's all done and said. / Each day unmistakably shows / That passion is dead, that it's sun...»
«Again Hope and I met each other — a meeting quite pleasing. / Her residence hasn’t moved farther, it’s me that was busy. / The same lucky dress made of poplin she’s wearing for walking, / The same is the fire in her eyes staring ages ahead... / You’re sister to us; we’re your bro...»
«I walk and I listen to what must be / The best little song on this earth. / I’m feeling the movement inside of me / Of its simple music and verse. It is immature and still very new, / Still very unsung — but the light / Of heavenly music comes vaguely through, / And orderly verses f...»
«Painting artists, take the color of this weather / And the noisy daily pace of Moscow yards, / So your brushes and the leaves be mixed together / In the yellow of November’s boulevards. Dip your brushes in the blue as to remember / The traditional forgotten city art, / Let your painting...»