What grasshopper-clocks are singing —
Fever is murmuring mad,
And the withered stove is rustling
Like a silk that’s burning red.
What the teeth of mice are nibbling
The slim-bottomed life to naught —
Is the swallow or her sibling
That cut loose my wretched boat.
Rain on tiles bubbles like a burning
Silk of black, but cherry tree
Will be hearing and forgiving
At the bottom of the sea.
Death is innocent, therefore
There is nothing that can heal
In that nightingale’s fever
Beating heart that is warm still.
Что поют часы-кузнечик,
Лихорадка шелестит
И шуршит сухая печка, —
Это красный шелк горит.
Что зубами мыши точат
Жизни тоненькое дно, —
Это ласточка и дочка
Отвязала мой челнок.
Что на крыше дождь бормочет, —
Это черный шелк горит,
Но черемуха услышит
И на дне морском: прости.
Потому что смерть невинна
И ничем нельзя помочь,
Что в горячке соловьиной
Сердце теплое еще.
«The violin got all worked up, imploring / then suddenly burst into sobs, / so child-like / that the drum couldn’t stand it: / "All right, all right, all right!" / But then he got tired, / couldn’t wait till the violin ended, / slipped out on the burning Kuznetsky / and took fligh...»
«(Instead of a letter) Tobacco smoke eats the air away. / The room, — / a chapter from Kruchenykh’s Inferno. / Recall, — / by the window, / that day, / I caressed you ecstatically, with fervor. / Here you sit now, / with your heart in iron armor. / In a day, / you’ll scol...»
«In lieu of a letter The room’s a chapter of Kruchonykh’s Inferno. / Air / gnawed out by tobacco smoke. / Remember – / At the window, / For the first time, / Burning, / With tender frenzy your arms I’d stroke. Now you’re sitting there, / Heart in armour; / A day, / And...»
«Instead of a letter Tobacco smoke corroded the air. / The room — / is a chapter in Kruchenykh’s hell. / Remember — / this window, / Here / I stroked your hands in a frenzy. / Well, / Your heart encased in iron. / Reviling, / You’ll throw me out, perhaps, / one day. / ...»