Who answered me in the forest grove?
Did an old oak whisper to a pine,
Or a mountain ash creak far away,
Or the okarina of a goldfinch sing,
Or a robin, my little pet,
Call suddenly at sunset?
Who answered me in the forest grove?
Did you remember
One spring, our past,
Our cares and troubles,
Our wanderings apart,
You, who singed my heart?
Who answered me in the forest grove?
Morning and evening, in cold and heat,
I still hear the faint echo,
The sigh of an unbounded love,
And my trembling poems
Straining towards you from my palms.
Кто мне откликнулся в чаще лесной?
Старый ли дуб зашептался с сосной,
Или вдали заскрипела рябина,
Или запела щегла окарина,
Или малиновка, маленький друг,
Мне на закате ответила вдруг?
Кто мне откликнулся в чаще лесной?
Ты ли, которая снова весной
Вспомнила наши прошедшие годы,
Наши заботы и наши невзгоды,
Наши скитанья в далеком краю, —
Ты, опалившая душу мою?
Кто мне откликнулся в чаще лесной?
Утром и вечером, в холод и зной,
Вечно мне слышится отзвук невнятный,
Словно дыханье любви необъятной,
Ради которой мой трепетный стих
Рвался к тебе из ладоней моих...
«Before the war Valya walked along the creek, / Where a willow grew for who knows who. Though why it lay on the creek, no one knew / Valya owned that willow. Killed in action, Valya came back / Under his willow, in his military cloak. Valya's willow, / Valya's willow, / Like a white boat...»
«My sight, which was my power, now blurs / Two invisible diamond spears; / My hearing subsides, full of ancient thunder / And the breathing of the house of my father. / The knots of tough muscles slacken / Like grey oxen, lax in the ploughed field; / The wings behind my shoulders yield / ...»
«An oblong, tight oval — / Your black dress's taper... / Young grandmother! Who kissed / Those haughty lips of yours? / / Hands that played Chopin's waltzes / In the household's rooms... / Curls, tight like spirals, / Hang at the edges of an icy face. / / Dark, forward and sop...»
«I will sew myself black trousers / from the velvet of my voice. / And from three yards of sunset, a yellow blouse. / Along the world's main street, along its glossy lanes, / I will saunter with the gait of Don Juan, a fop. Let the earth, overripe and placid, cry out: / "You would rape the...»