Barely swaying
At a point where the winds cross,
Light birds hung
Like icon lamps amid the heavens.
Their tiny telescopic eyes
Peered straight down.
People crawled like bed-bugs,
And brooks meandered.
A mouse ran across a field,
And a bird pounced on it.
The little corpse, instantly disfigured,
Was dragged into the reeds.
And sitting there, the bird
Tore the mouse with its fingers,
And from its mouth a stream of water
Flowed onto the ground.
And shifting the tiny telescopes
Of its dimmed eyes,
The bird thought. A tarantas
Came rolling over the hill.
I was sitting in that tarantas,
As it sped across the field,
And my own wretched fate
Weighed on my heart as well.
Колыхаясь еле-еле
Всем ветрам наперерез,
Птицы легкие висели,
Как лампады средь небес.
Их глаза, как телескопики,
Смотрели прямо вниз.
Люди ползали, как клопики,
Источники вились.
Мышь бежала возле пашен,
Птица падала на мышь.
Трупик, вмиг обезображен,
Убираем был в камыш.
В камышах сидела птица,
Мышку пальцами рвала,
Изо рта ее водица
Струйкой на землю текла.
И сдвигая телескопики
Своих потухших глаз,
Птица думала. На холмике
Катился тарантас.
Тарантас бежал по полю,
В тарантасе я сидел
И своих несчастий долю
Тоже на сердце имел.
«With inspiration and such sweetness / The princess sang about May. / I said: "Just wait, my dear princess, / You"ll have to cry for me some day". / / She cuddled to me drawing near / And said: "Oh no, forgive me, pray. / Go fighting sword in hand, my dear. / I will safeguard you on...»
«There is fatal news of perdition / In your innermost songs through and through. / There's a curse of holy volition / And affront of happiness, too. / / Their power, so captivating, / Makes me say what everyone says: / Fair angels you've been abating / Fascinate them with your g...»
«Three shabby straps begin to flutter / Like in the golden years again, / And sticking in the slushy gutter / The motley spokes can hardly gain. / / Oh Russia, wretched Russia, dear, / Your houses, so grey and rough, / Your songs that blow, up in the air, / Appear as clear as tear...»
«High up, above the sleepy world, / The kite flies round drawing circles / And watching the deserted wold. / At home the mom her sunny suckles: / "Now take it, suck the breast, be good, / Grow, bear your cross of babyhood". / / The years fly over, full of drama, / With wars and vill...»