I shall soon fall prey to rot.
Though it's hard to die, it's good to die;
I shall ask for no one's pity,
And there's no one who would pity me.
With my lyre I won no glory
For my noble family name;
And I die as distant from my people
As the day that I began to live.
Ties of friendship, unions of the heart —
All are broken: from my youth,
Fate has sent me foes implacable,
While my friends all perished in the struggle.
Their prophetic songs were left unfinished,
They fell victim to misfortune, were betrayed
In the bloom of life; and now their portraits watch me
From the walls, reproachfully.
Скоро стану добычею тленья.
Тяжело умирать, хорошо умереть;
Ничьего не прошу сожаленья,
Да и некому будет жалеть.
Я дворянскому нашему роду
Блеска лирой своей не стяжал;
Я настолько же чуждым народу
Умираю, как жить начинал.
Узы дружбы, союзов сердечных —
Всё порвалось: мне с детства судьба
Посылала врагов долговечных,
А друзей уносила борьба.
Песни вещие их не допеты,
Пали жертвою злобы, измен
В цвете лет; на меня их портреты
Укоризненно смотрят со стен.
«I blurred at once the chart of trite routine / by splashing paint with one swift motion. / I showed upon a plate of brawny glutin / the slanting cheekbones of the ocean / Upon the scales of tinny fishes / new lips summoned, though yet mute. / But could you / play / right to the finis...»
«The buzz subsides. I have come on stage. / Leaning in an open door / I try to detect from the echo / What the future has in store. A thousand opera-glasses level / The dark, point-blank, at me. / Abba, Father, if it be possible / Let this cup pass from me. I love your preordained desig...»
«February. Take ink and weep, / write February as you’re sobbing, / while black Spring burns deep / through the slush and throbbing. Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks, / through bell-towers’ and wheel noise, / go where the rain-storm’s din breaks, / greater than crying or ink emp...»
«The noise dies. I walk on stage. / Leaning on the door’s frame, / from the far echo I try to gauge / what they’ll put against my name. Night’s shadow is focused on me, / through a thousand opera-glasses. / Abba, Father, if it may be, / see that this cup passes. I love your stubbo...»