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!
«I love your eyes, dear, / their fiery-playful games, / their sudden upward glances / slowly looking all around / like lightning-flames. There’s a more potent spell: / eyes lower. / A mouth hungers. / Lids almost close. / Sullen arousal glows.»
«Inconsolable anguish, I hail your sting! / Yesterday died the grey-eyed king. / The autumn evening was stifling and red, / My husband returned and casually said: / “Back from the hunt, with his body they walked, / They found him lying beside the old oak. / I pity the queen. So young! P...»
«Nothing chains a heart to heart, / If you’d like to leave. / Many joys will life impart / On the one who’s free. I don’t cry, complain or pout, / Mine is not a life of bliss. / Do not kiss me, all worn out, — / Death will come to kiss. Bitter languor has been weathered / With...»
«Here we’re all drunkards and whores, / Joylessly stuck together! / On the walls, birds and flowers / Pine for the clouds and air. The smoke from your black pipe / Makes strange vapours rise. / The skirt I wear is tight, / Revealing my slim thighs. Windows tightly closed: / Who’s ...»