Supper sky fell in love with a bulwark
All is slashed with pink scars of light threads —
Having fallen upon it was thrown back
And transformed into thirteen odd heads.
There you are, my nighty-night heaven,
Like a young boy I’m here to face you —
Chills run down my back, eyes are straining
Catching trebuchet stones as they flew.
And with every new strike of the siege ram
In the sky falling stars lose their eyes —
Same old supper adorned with new lesions,
Murky fresco's unfinished surmise.
Небо вечери в стену влюбилось, —
Все изрублено светом рубцов —
Провалилось в нее, осветилось,
Превратилось в тринадцать голов.
Вот оно — мое небо ночное,
Пред которым как мальчик стою:
Холодеет спина, очи ноют.
Стенобитную твердь я ловлю —
И под каждым ударом тарана
Осыпаются звезды без глав:
Той же росписи новые раны —
Неоконченной вечности мгла...
«Hatred! A special added taste to the soup. / The soup’s just soup. Simple stock really, / but with a pinch of salt or pepper / from the heart that hates in vain. Hatred makes the bed, / hatred corrects the notebook, / sweeps the floor and wipes away the dust: / and never lets you out ...»
«Husbands with their doings and nerves, / sense of duty and sense of guilt, / ought to die first, first, / they ought not die second* Wives ought to grow old little by little / reaching even hundred-year limits, / on rare occasions, but over and over again / remembering their husbands. ...»
«People don’t laugh at funerals, / except maybe in their hearts. / For as long as the speeches are ringing out, / breathe evenly. And measure against veracity / the tears or the praise, / knowing that justice / is quietly waiting in the comer.»
«Talk is hushed. I tread the boards. / Leaning on the post of the door, / Distantly I catch the stir / Of what’s happening in this age. Darkly night admonishes / With a thousand lenses trained. / Abba Father, if Thou wouldst, / Bear this chalice past my lips. I adore Thy strict design...»