I have seen in a dream a juniper brush,
I have heard a distant metallical crush,
A ringing of amethyst berries I caught,
And quietly sleeping, I liked it a lot.
I sensed through the dream the sap in the air.
Looking in through the branches I was aware,
In the gloom of the wood, the arboreal shroud,
A hint of your smile could be made out.
Juniper bush, O juniper bush,
Treacherous lips that murmur and hush,
Delicate chatter whiffing of sap,
Piercing me with a death-dealing stab!
Golden skies on the other side of the glass
See the floating clouds coming to pass,
My garden is barren and nothing is lush...
May heaven forgive you, juniper bush!
Я увидел во сне можжевеловый куст,
Я услышал вдали металлический хруст,
Аметистовых ягод услышал я звон,
И во сне, в тишине, мне понравился он.
Я почуял сквозь сон лёгкий запах смолы.
Отогнув невысокие эти стволы,
Я заметил во мраке древесных ветвей
Чуть живое подобье улыбки твоей.
Можжевеловый куст, можжевеловый куст,
Остывающий лепет изменчивых уст,
Лёгкий лепет, едва отдающий смолой,
Проколовший меня смертоносной иглой!
В золотых небесах за окошком моим
Облака проплывают одно за другим,
Облетевший мой садик безжизнен и пуст…
Да простит тебя Бог, можжевеловый куст!
«Why do you pretend to be / A wind, a bird, or a stone? / Why do you smile at me / From the sky with a sudden dawn? Do not torment me, do not touch! / Leave me to wise cares, away! / The inebriated flame sways / Over dried-up marshes gray. And Muse in a torn kerchief / Sings disconsol...»
«Transparent glass of empty sky / The bleached-out bulky prison building / And churchgoers' solemn singing / Over Volkhov, growing blue with light. September wind tore birch leaves off / Through branches tossed and screamed with hate / And city recollects its fate: / Here ruled Martha an...»
«I Smells like burning. For four weeks now / The dry ground on the swamplands bakes. / Today even birds did not sing songs / And the aspen-tree does not shake. Sun has stopped in divine displeasure / Easter rain did not pelt fields hard. / A one-legged passerby came here / And alone sai...»
«That voice, with great quietude arguing, / Had a victory over her. / In me still, like song or woe, / Is last winter before the war. She was whiter than Smolny Cathedral / More mysterious than summer garden at noon / We didn't know that in parting sadness / We'd be looking back soon.»