Where can I hide in this January?
Wide-open city with a mad death-grip...
Can I be drunk from sealed doors? —
I want to bellow from locks and knots...
And the socks of barking back roads,
and the hovels on twisted streets —
and deadbeats hurry into corners
and hurriedly dart back out again...
And into the pit, into the warty dark
I slide, into waterworks of ice,
and I stumble, I eat dead air,
and fevered crows exploding everywhere —
But I cry after them, shouting at
some wickerwork of frozen wood:
A reader! A councillor! A doctor!
A conversation on the spiny stair!
Куда мне деться в этом январе?
Открытый город сумасбродно цепок...
От замкнутых я, что ли, пьян дверей? —
И хочется мычать от всех замков и скрепок.
И переулков лающих чулки,
И улиц перекошенных чуланы —
И прячутся поспешно в уголки
И выбегают из углов угланы...
И в яму, в бородавчатую темь
Скольжу к обледенелой водокачке
И, спотыкаясь, мертвый воздух ем,
И разлетаются грачи в горячке —
А я за ними ахаю, крича
В какой-то мерзлый деревянный короб:
— Читателя! советчика! врача!
На лестнице колючей разговора б!
«Wake as you will, but wake in me, — / in the cold, in the voiceless depths of me. I will not beg for words, but give / me a sign that you are still alive. Not for long — just a moment of your time. / If not a verse, just a sigh, just a cry. Just a whisper or just a moan. / Just t...»
«But I keep remembering one of them, / that first spring of the blockade… / / How many rusty beds and bunks / littered the streets those days! / They hunched down among the ruins / senselessly trying to screen them. / Their sombre, bony dance twirled / everywhere the ground was bei...»
«When I set out my mother gave me / a little ikon depicting Silence. / Dumbly desperate now, for long / it has had no work beseeching god. / / And the blessed angel of Silence / watched over me jealously. / Twice – and it was no accident – / he turned me from the path. He knew…...»
«I still believe that I shall return to life, / shall wake early one day, at dawn, / in the light, early hours, in the transparent dew, / where the branches are studded with drops, / and a small lake stands in the sundew’s bowl, / reflecting the swift flight of the clouds. / And, inclin...»