The coachman sits like a king,
Wadded in armor, on a throne,
Spade-bearded like an icon,
Ringing with chain mail of coins.
And the poor horse flutters its arms,
Stretching like a coney fish,
Or, once more, flashing its eight legs
From out its gleaming belly.
Сидит извозчик, как на троне,
Из ваты сделана броня,
И борода, как на иконе,
Лежит, монетами звеня.
А бедный конь руками машет,
То вытянется, как налим,
То снова восемь ног сверкают
В его блестящем животе.
«My sister Muse looked at my face, / Her gaze was clear and bright. / She took my golden ring away — / First present of that spring. / Muse! Do you see their happiness? / Girls, widows, wives. / I would rather die on the rack, / But not these bounds of iron. / Guessing, I tear the...»
«I raise my glass / To ravaged home, / My bitter life, / And lonely days with you. / I drink to you, / To lying lips' betrayal, / To deathly frigid eyes; / To that the world is cruel and crude, / To that we weren't saved by God.»
«Don’t weep for me — I’ll live on / as a happy beggar, a convict with goodwill, / as a southerner frozen in the north, / as a consumptive and ill-tempered Petershurger / in the malarial south I’ll live on. Don’t weep for me — I’ll live on / as that lame girl who came out on t...»
«Along my street, these steady steps resound / Year after year: my friends are slowly leaving. / The all-absorbing lightlessness around / Finds ease in seeing me alone and grieving. Sad, unattended are my friends’ affairs; / Their homes are dull; no song or music sounding; / Degas’ y...»