Poor poet, was that really you,
addressing the moon in rhyme?
My eyes were dulled so long ago
by love, by cards and wine.
The moon climbs through the window frame.
White light, so white it blinds you...
I bet on the Queen of Spades,
but I played the Ace of Diamonds.
Сочинитель бедный, это ты ли
Сочиняешь песни о луне?
Уж давно глаза мои остыли
На любви, на картах и вине.
Ах, луна влезает через раму,
Свет такой, хоть выколи глаза...
Ставил я на пиковую даму,
А сыграл бубнового туза.
«1 I break the layered rocks / In the hour when the silty day / Is moulded, and my tired mule carries / The weighty lumps on its shaggy back. We carry them to the railroad, / Put them in a heap, — and to the sea again / The hairy legs lead us, / And the mule starts braying. And it br...»
«The city took off its wintery things. / The snows turned slobbery. / Spring has come again, / foolish and loose-tongued / as an army cadet.»
«The hooves clattered. / As if singing: / — Crib. / Grab. / Grub. / Gruff. Drunk with the wind, / ice-shod, / the street slid away, / a horse landed / with a wallop on its crupper, / and instantly, / gaper after gaper, / boot-cut pants on Kuznetskii, / ganged up / with ...»
«I have a mom on the cornflower-blue wallpaper. / I stroll in mottled slacks, / and torment the whirly daises with measured steps. / An evening begins to frolic on rusty oboes, / I come to the small window, / believing, / that I shall again see / the cloud / seated on top of the house...»