[after S. Galkin]
The autumn world is sensibly ordered
And inhabited.
Enter, be quiet in the heart of things,
Like this maple.
And if dust covers you momentarily,
Don't be alarmed.
Let the dew from dawn fields
Wash your leaves.
When thunder breaks out over the world
And a windstorm rages,
Your slender trunk is forced to bend
Towards the ground.
And even falling into a fatal weariness
From such torments,
Be silent, my friend, like this
Autumn tree.
Don't forget, it will straighten again,
It isn't bowed,
For the autumn maple is made wiser
By the earth's wisdom.
(Из С. Галкина)
Осенний мир осмысленно устроен
И населен.
Войди в него и будь душой спокоен,
Как этот клен.
И если пыль на миг тебя покроет,
Не помертвей.
Пусть на заре листы твои умоет
Роса полей.
Когда ж гроза над миром разразится
И ураган,
Они заставят до земли склониться
Твой тонкий стан.
Но даже впав в смертельную истому
От этих мук,
Подобно древу осени простому,
Смолчи, мой друг.
Не забывай, что выпрямится снова,
Не искривлен,
Но умудрен от разума земного,
Осенний клен.
«Boiling up over the years, / A fury that drives on crazy, / Fury with the champions of freedom, / Fury with the adherents of the yoke, / Fury with the dregs and the toffs — / Different-colored specimens / Of the same "worldly wisdom", / With the world and with my native land. Fury? ...»
«Fog. The road I usually wander down / Unwinds before me. I do not / Expect much from the future... Nothing — to be precise. / I don't believe in God's mercy. / I don't believe in hellfires. Thus, stage by stage, do convicts straggle. / From prison camp to prison camp. / The lion exte...»
«In a foreign land in an old foreign house / Her portrait kings on the wall, / Her, dying, like a beggar woman, on straw, / In torments for which there is no name. But here in the portrait she's complete, as before, / She rich, she's young, / She's in her luxurious green dress, / In whic...»
«I remain with what was not fully said, / With what was not fully sung, not played out, / Not written to the end, in a secret society, / In the quiet fellowship of the unsuccessful, / Who lived in rustling pages / And now talk in whispers. / They even forewarned us in youth, / But we di...»