They bring a bouquet of thistles
And put it on the table.
Before me, a fire, a turmoil.
The purple dance of flames.
These sharp-pointed stars,
These splashes of northern lights.
Tambourines thunder and moan.
Lanterns burst from inside.
This too is a way of making worlds,
An organism woven of light.
It is the heat of unfinished battles,
Raised swords ablaze.
These are towers of fury and of glory
Where spear leans on spear,
Where bunches of flowers are bloodyheaded
And cut right into my heart.
I dreamed of a high prison
And bars black as night.
Behind them — a fairytale bird,
That one for whom there is no help.
I too, it seems, live badly
For I have not the strength to help.
And the wall of thistles rises
Between me and my joy.
The wedge of the thorn reaches
For my breast. Surely for the last time
The sad and beautiful glance
Of her inextinguishable eyes
Beckons to me.
Принесли букет чертополоха
И на стол поставили, и вот
Предо мной пожар, и суматоха,
И огней багровый хоровод.
Эти звезды с острыми концами,
Эти брызги северной зари
И гремят и стонут бубенцами,
Фонарями вспыхнув изнутри.
Это тоже образ мирозданья,
Организм, сплетенный из лучей,
Битвы неоконченной пыланье,
Полыханье поднятых мечей,
Это башня ярости и славы,
Где к копью приставлено копье,
Где пучки цветов, кровавоглавы,
Прямо в сердце врезаны мое.
Снилась мне высокая темница
И решетка, черная, как ночь,
За решеткой — сказочная птица,
Та, которой некому помочь.
Но и я живу, как видно, плохо,
Ибо я помочь не в силах ей.
И встает стена чертополоха
Между мной и радостью моей.
И простерся шип клинообразный
В грудь мою, и уж в последний раз
Светит мне печальный и прекрасный
Взор ее неугасимых глаз.
«A simian profile / With slits for eyes; / Dumpling lips and a potato nose: / Neither a girl nor a goat. Hair like a fishtail; / No bust, more like a frying pan; / And growing from the chin — / It’s terrible, I know — a beard. Choppy gestures, long feet, / Hands twisted backward...»
«Family — a mess of acquaintances — whiners, / An insufferable carnival of fools. / From work, from friends, from rotten politics / The brain is endlessly assailed. / Take books — garbage and filth: / One cat scratches, / Another licks, breeds filth / And mews sensually... Peter ...»
«All trousers are cut in the same way, / Same goes for whiskers, overcoats, even pots. / I am the same as everyone on the street / And blend in completely at the corner... But I would not trade in my personality / To become a member of it all, or it of me — / I wrap myself entirely in in...»
«Tightly coiled, like a snake it sits / In my very heart, weaving spells / Or murmurs for days on end / Like a dove on my white windowsill. In the sparkle of hoarfrost a gleam, / In the carnation's slumber a hint, / And secretly, surely it leads / From all joy and peace of mind. It can ...»