There's а smell of crumbly ovencake,
By the door — a tub of kvass.
Round the niches on the stove wall
Cockroaches creep into cracks.
There's а wisp of smoke by the stove-door,
In the grate white ash of great length
And egg-shells freshly broken
By the salt box upon the bench.
The oven-fork Mother can't steadily
Handle, she has to bend down,
While the old cat's heading stealthily
For the milk fresh from the cow.
The hens are clucking restlessly,
Perched on the wooden plough shafts,
The cocks in the yard start rendering
In concert an early mass.
At the entrance, where the porch is,
By the bustle terrified
Puppies crawl into dark corners
Under yokes and sacks to hide.
Пахнет рыхлыми драченами,
У порога в дежке квас,
Над печурками точеными
Тараканы лезут в паз.
Вьется сажа над заслонкою,
В печке нитки попелиц,
А на лавке за солонкою —
Шелуха сырых яиц.
Мать с ухватами не сладится,
Нагибается низко,
Старый кот к махотке крадется
На парное молоко.
Квохчут куры беспокойные
Над оглоблями сохи,
На дворе обедню стройную
Запевают петухи.
А в окне на сени скатые,
От пугливой шумоты,
Из углов щенки кудлатые
Заползают в хомуты.
«With blinding brilliance / The evening dawns at seven. / From streets toward awnings / Darkness marches apace. / People – they are manikins; / Only lust and sadness lead / Them across the universe / Feeling their way by touch. / The heart under the palm / Betrays with its shudder...»
«The sound, cautiously subdued, / of a fruit having come unglued / from a tree among unquiet hum / of the deepest silence of wood.»
«The distant and obscure sound, / A fruit fell from a tree among / Unceasing music of a tongue / Of forests – silent and profound…»
«The sound, muffled, cautious: / of tree’s fruit, falling, / among endless singing / silent forest depths…»