Florence was my stepmother of violence.
So I chose to lie in this tomb at Ravenna.
Passer-by, do not speak of treason,
Let death seal up the city with silence.
Time raised this white monument here
Over which the dove coos, quiet, sweet bird
Who seeks to sing me to rest, but I dream
Only of my country, my faith, my lost fear.
Exile, that broken lute, is immune to travel;
Years and languages away, it dies at home.
Oh, my sadness. Tuscany, your kiss of memory is
A web of flesh that death cannot unravel.
Frightened, the dove darts from the tomb's roof
As the shadow of a winged machine,
High and deadly, draws strange lines
Over the city, white lines of war, evil, aloof.
O bell-ringer, your heavy bell will not cease
Ringing that the world still foams with blood!
I chose Ravenna’s sanctuary for my death.
But even Ravenna brings no peace.
Мне мачехой Флоренция была,
Я пожелал покоиться в Равенне.
Не говори, прохожий, о измене,
Пусть даже смерть клеймит ее дела.
Над белой усыпальницей моей
Воркует голубь, сладостная птица,
Но родина и до сих пор мне снится,
И до сих пор я верен только ей.
Разбитой лютни не берут в поход,
Она мертва среди родного стана.
Зачем же ты, печаль моя, Тоскана,
Целуешь мой осиротевший рот?
А голубь рвется с крыши и летит,
Как будто опасается кого-то,
И злая тень чужого самолета
Свои круги над городом чертит.
Так бей, звонарь, в свои колокола!
Не забывай, что мир в кровавой пене!
Я пожелал покоиться в Равенне,
Но и Равенна мне не помогла.
«A quiet perfume from the orchard, / apple blossoms and acacia. / The boyarina is fasting / and afraid that she might fall. / Dead men float. / Last night. It was glorious, ecstatic. / Dead men pull the oars. / Cold glances above a white veil / burn and sparkle, / and sepulchral sha...»
«These tenuous Japanese shadows, / murmuring Indian maidens — / nothing sounds so mournful / as words at a last supper. / Death — but first a flash of life / again: unknown, unlike, immediate. / This rule is the only rhythm / for the dance of death and attainment.»
«Tell your kitten not to bite, / I'll angelize you when I die. / Hokusai will paint your mouth, / Murillo paint your virgin eye.»
«Nations, faces, ages pass, / pass as in a dream, / an ever-flowing stream. / In Nature's shifting glimmer-glass / stars are nets, we their haul, / gods are shadows on a wall.»