A Psalter of Tsar' Aleksii,
Its pages — scarves, funeral groats,
Restless Russia
Wanders, wheezing, through decrees.
The peasant jacket is torn,
The disgraced headscarf flaps .
Now a bench by' the door would be good,
And tales about Constantinople,
Honey buns on the table,
The bells of Dormition across the fence...
Oh, to hide from the rumors
Of the indefatigability of iron.
To take a nap, as before, on the stove bench...
Except that gunpowder and smoke are in the wind...
Is it foreign devils that the quietest
Tsar Is washing off in the bathhouse?
Aren't they binning Avvakum
To the cawing of countless crows?..
From Bukhara to the Lapp tents
Calico May is flaming.
Under apple blossom, the jacket and
The lenten Psalter are swept away...
Behind the Soviet summer of posters
Flower roses and ginger.
In the luminescence of astral sowing,
Like an ear of grain to its furrows,
Eve gleams in her nakedness
Smiling at other worlds.
Псалтырь царя Алексия,
В страницах убрусы, кутья,
Неприкаянная Россия
По уставам бродит кряхтя
Изодрана душегрейка
Опальный треплется плат…
Теперь бы в сенцах скамейки,
Рассказы про Китяж-град.
На столе медовые пышки,
За тыном успенский звон
Зачураться бы от наслышки
Про железный неугомон
Как в былом заснуть на лежанке…
Только в ветре порох и гарь…
Не заморскую ль нечисть в баньке
Отмывает тишайший царь?
Не сжигают ли Аввакума
Под вороний несметный грай?…
...
От Бухар до лопского чума
Полыхает кумачный май.
Заметает яблонным цветом
Душегрейку, постный Псалтырь…
За плакатным советским летом
Расцветают розы, имбирь.
В лечезарье звездного сева,
Как чреватый колос браздам,
Наготою сияет Ева,
Улыбаясь юным мирам.
«We had thought we were beggars, / with nothing at all, / but as loss followed loss / and each day / became a day of memorial, / we began to make songs / about the Lord’s generosity / and our bygone wealth.»
«Choke all week in the fumes and air stinking / of fear, for the bare means of life; / spend the Saturday dozing and drinking, / with your arm round an unlovely wife. Then on Sunday by train for an outing, / with a rug to spread out on the grass, / just to doze off again, never doubting, /...»
«The stars glow blue. The trees are swaying. / A routine evening. Routine winter, too. / All is forgiven. Nothing’s forgiven. / Music and gloom. We are all heroes, we are all traitors; / all words are worthless, each and every one. / My dear contemporaries — / having fun?»
«Farewell, dear friend, farewell — / you’re present in my heart. / We’ll meet again, the stars foretell, / though now we have to part. Goodbye for now, goodbye, dear friend — / no handshake, words or grief. / To die is nothing new — but then, / what new is there in life?»