My body, all I borrowed from the earth,
I do not want it to return here —
some flour-white butterfly.
My body, scratched and chewed with thought,
I want it to become a street, a land —
it was too full of vertebrae.
The dark green pine needles howling in the wind
look like funeral wreaths thrown into the water...
how our pastimes and life were drained away!
when we sat like galley slaves at our gruelling benches —
bodies spread against a backdrop of green pine,
red flags colored like the A B C's s of a child!
The comrades of the last contingent are on the move;
no conversation; on their shoulders,
the exclamation points of rifles.
From the heights of the sky, a thousand guns,
brown eyes, blue eyes; no one sets the step — men, men, men!
Who will follow after them?
Не мучнистой бабочкою белой
В землю я заёмный прах верну —
Я хочу, чтоб мыслящее тело
Превратилось в улицу, в страну:
Позвоночное, обугленное тело,
Сознающее свою длину.
Возгласы тёмно-зелёной хвои,
С глубиной колодезной венки
Тянут жизнь и время дорогое,
Оперши́сь на смертные станки —
О́бручи краснознамённой хвои,
Азбучные, крупные венки!
Шли товарищи последнего призыва
По работе в жёстких небесах,
Пронесла пехота молчаливо
Восклицанья ружей на плечах.
И зенитных тысячи орудий —
Карих то зрачков иль голубых —
Шли нестройно — люди, люди, люди, —
Кто же будет продолжать за них?
«I’m praying to the window ray — / It’s pallid, thin, exact. / I have not said a word all day, / Although my heart is cracked. / Over the years, my washstand’s color / Became a tint of green. / The playful ray upon its copper / Creates a pleasing scene. / So pure and simple to...»
«Out to the hall, I walked my lover / And in the golden dust I stopped / And from the nearby belfry tower / The solemn sounds echoed up. / I’m left behind! A made-up phrase — / A bloom, a letter? But, alas, / The eyes already sternly gaze / Into the darkened cheval glass. »
«Will you forgive me these November days? / Lights flicker in the Neva’s waterways. / The tragic autumn’s meager decorations.»
«It’s not your love I seek tonight. / It’s in a safe place now, it’s hidden… / Believe me that I haven’t written / Resentful letters to your bride. / But take this sensible suggestion: / Give her my poetry to read, / Give her my portraits for protection — / The groom must al...»