In the green church beyond the hill,
Where the willows dropped their rosaries,
I commemorate with the prosphora
Of juvenile spring the tales of youth.
And you, bowing down
In front of me, stand invisibly,
The silks of lowered eyelashes
Make the wings of cherubim flap.
Your white fate is not marred
By your hardened time,
The same pink handkerchief
Tied with a swarthy hand.
The same sigh stiffly pressing
On your cracked shoulders
Over that who lives beyond the sea
And who is farther away from home.
And more ponderous is the memory
Of day against the comely face of life.
O, pray for me as well,
Homeless in the motherland!
В зелёной церкви за горой,
Где вербы чётки уронили,
Я поминаю просфорой
Младой весны младые были.
А ты, склонившаяся ниц,
Передо мной стоишь незримо,
Шелка опущенных ресниц
Колышут крылья херувима.
Не омрачён твой белый рок
Твоей застывшею порою,
Всё тот же розовый платок
Затянут смуглою рукою.
Всё тот же вздох упруго жмёт
Твои надломленные плечи
О том, кто за морем живёт
И кто от родины далече.
И всё тягуче память дня
Перед пристойным ликом жизни.
О, помолись и за меня,
За бесприютного в отчизне.
«The poet has no rivals / either on the street or in his destiny. / And when he cries out lo the whole world, / it’s not about you, but about himself. / / He raises his delicate hands op lo heaven, / expending his life and powers drop by drop. / Burning out, he asks for forgiveness, ...»
«Poet has no contestants — no matter / If it’s street walk or destiny’s course. / When he screams to the world, every letter / Tells the story of his — not of yours. Skinny hands raised to heaven, and draining, / Drop by drop, bringing life to the brim, / He begs mercy, burns out;...»
«Let’s dream up a despot, / who will role alone in our hearts / from the most childish age / right down to noble gray hairs. / / Let’s have him grow a luxuriant moustache / and let’s put in rapacious eyes, / pull on jackboots that make no noise, / and let’s all vote yes. / ...»
«to A. Zhigulin / / If there is a raven up above / It means things are moving toward war. / / So there shouldn’t be a war / The raven has to be killed. / To kill the raven / A gun has to be loaded. / / But when we start loading it / Everyone will want to shoot. / And as s...»