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!
«With Leeuwenhoek's magic device / Science discovered / Signs of astonishing life / On the surface of a water-drop. The realm of birth and death / Is the link in an endless chain, / In this world of wondrous creations, / It's so minute and plain! Except the abyss, where meteors fly, / ...»
«The hot sultry summer / Comes dazzling by degrees. / The grass, scorched by the sun, / Is dressed in a moist vapor. The burdock, yellowed by heat, / Unfolds its pink armour / And stands, choking with flies, / Beneath the tall windows of a hut. In the bloom of nature / There's a brief...»
«With face upturned to the sky, / Head uncovered, / He lingers by the gates, / This God-accursed old guy. / All day he sings, / And his sad, angry refrain, / Striking at the heart, / Startles pedestrians again. Around the old man / Younger generations stir. / Blossoming in the gar...»
«The thaw after a snowstorm, / A blizzard has just subsided, / Now snowdrifts have settled, / And the snow is turning grey. / / A sliver of moon shines / Through tattered clouds. / The pine-trees' boughs / Are heavy with wet snow. Icicles melt and flow down, / Piercing the snowdri...»