Am I dreaming, or really and truly
It was I, who in bed so unruly,
Laughed so loud for the first time one night
Not aware I was only a mite?
The days were too brief in duration,
And the longest seemed always too short —
My plans would be doomed to frustration,
Games unfinished and fights left unfought.
And I still go to bed under pressure,
In the calm of the night find no pleasure.
And in sleep I still see my worst foe
Just as three score and ten years ago.
Неужели я тот же самый,
Что, в постель не ложась упрямо,
Слышал первый свой громкий смех
И не знал, что я меньше всех.
И всегда-то мне дня было мало,
Даже в самые долгие дни,
Для всего, что меня занимало, —
Дружбы, драки, игры, беготни.
Да и нынче борюсь я с дремотой,
И ложусь до сих пор с неохотой,
И покою ночному не рад,
Как две трети столетья назад.
«Night does not melt. Night is like / Stone, only ice melts, weeping, / And a flame spreads through one’s / Body on its fantastic flight. But the ice-pack on one’s head / Mutters in vain while melting: / In reckoning, it does not remember / That there are only two pillows. And that ...»
«Oh, how I feel the accumulated burden of / Poisoned nights and grubby, pallid days! You, / Cards, is there anything at the same time more / Alluring than you, more vulgar and frightful? You are terrible with a drunken headache’s tenderness, / And they prefer you to science, to love, to po...»
«(Little Tight-Fist) To bloom in a ceaseless hell of / Footsteps now heavy, now resounding. / And of groaning pulleys, and fumes, / And the knocking of billiard balls... To love until the east bursts / Out in a bloody streak, / A brief hour, until the white / Kerchief has adapted to her...»
«Oh, no, not your waist, though it be so / Tender and lively, will I save from your / Temptations, not the moist shine of crimson / Smiles, the cold serpent of suffering. Thus at times in the banal, motley hall, where / The waltz rings out, disturbing and beseeching, / I summon up in rever...»