Swallow tweets fair and confiding,
Cuts the air with wings agile,
Every current she is fighting
Saving strengths all the while.
Soars the pits and soars the heaven,
In perusal of the pest,
At the cornice of the cabin
Until daybreak taking rest.
Overcome by her behaviors,
I set course towards the height,
And my soul far lands endeavors
Like an avian in flight.
Like a bird it's crying, flapping
In the magical terrain,
With its frail beak tapping
At your poor soul in vain.
For your soul became faded,
A lock is hanging on the door.
Oil has burned in the lampade,
And the wick sheds light no more.
Swallow weeps, distressed and dreary,
Desperate to set it right,
And departs the cemetery
For the magic-ridden night.
Славно ласточка щебечет,
Ловко крыльями стрижет,
Всем ветрам она перечит,
Но и силы бережет.
Реет верхом, реет низом,
Догоняет комара
И в избушке под карнизом
Отдыхает до утра.
Удивлен ее повадкой,
Устремляюсь я в зенит,
И душа моя касаткой
В отдаленный край летит.
Реет, плачет, словно птица,
В заколдованном краю,
Слабым клювиком стучится
В душу бедную твою.
Но душа твоя угасла,
На дверях висит замок.
Догорело в лампе масло,
И не светит фитилек.
Горько ласточка рыдает
И не знает, как помочь,
И с кладбища улетает
В заколдованную ночь.
«They babbled / fairy tales to / me about the earth: / “Man lives there. And love.” But, in truth — / there’s only evil, / Disguises. Masks. / Lies and filth. Lies and blood. When they suggested /...»
«They would pass by, and again depart, / They could not deceive me... / There is a certain, single word / Which encompasses the entire essence. The others — are dried feather-grass. / The others — are all flotsam, / Gray dust. / A girl walked across the street, / An auto screamed a...»
«How this bitter cold’s exhausted me, / This frost in my heart. / If only I could weep to thaw my heart, / But there are no tears...»
«To him who triumphs I shall give white garments. / — Book of Revelation He tempers me — with His remoteness, / I accept the test. / I accept with resignation / His love — His silence. And the more mute my love, / The more unattainable, constant it becomes, / And the more beautifu...»