Snowdrift, piled up, is now brittle and callous,
Cold is the moon that shines from the height.
Now I am back at my dear old house,
And through the blizzard I see the light.
Well, we are homeless but we do not suffer.
I laud what I've got, without complain.
Here I am back at my home having supper,
Happy to see my old mother again.
She looks, and I see that her eyes are in tears,
Silently crying, as if all was right.
Then, as she touches the cup, it appears
Stubborn, about to slip and slide.
Dear old mommy, my best and my tenderest,
Get grievous reflection out of your head.
Listen to me, to the song of the tempest
I'll tell you about my life instead.
Much have I seen and much have I travelled,
Much have I loved, and suffered, too.
I have caroused, stirred up trouble and revelled,
And haven't seen anyone as worthy as you.
Now having slipped off my shoes and my jacket,
Warming myself by the bedside again,
I have revived and, like in my childhood,
I wish for good luck, and I hope not vain.
Meanwhile the blizzard is gasping and sobbing
Whirling in clouds of snow through the night.
And I imagine, the leaves are a-falling
Those of the lime-trees that grow outside.
Снежная замять дробится и колется,
Сверху озябшая светит луна.
Снова я вижу родную околицу,
Через метель огонек у окна.
Все мы бездомники, много ли нужно нам.
То, что далось мне, про то и пою.
Вот я опять за родительским ужином,
Снова я вижу старушку мою.
Смотрит, а очи слезятся, слезятся,
Тихо, безмолвно, как будто без мук.
Хочет за чайную чашку взяться —
Чайная чашка скользит из рук.
Милая, добрая, старая, нежная,
С думами грустными ты не дружись,
Слушай, под эту гармонику снежную
Я расскажу про свою тебе жизнь.
Много я видел и много я странствовал,
Много любил я и много страдал,
И оттого хулиганил и пьянствовал,
Что лучше тебя никого не видал.
Вот и опять у лежанки я греюсь,
Сбросил ботинки, пиджак свой раздел.
Снова я ожил и снова надеюсь
Так же, как в детстве, на лучший удел.
А за окном под метельные всхлипы,
В диком и шумном метельном чаду,
Кажется мне — осыпаются липы,
Белые липы в нашем саду.
«On a pearl shuttle you spin / A thread of silk so fragile / Come forth, you fingers agile, / Lesson in charms begin. Movements of arms about / Their ebbs and flows in flight — / To cause some solar fright / You cast a charm, no doubt When your broad hand's on fire / Like shell grow...»
«We have gone mad from endless jubilation / Wine in the morning, hangover at night. / Your blush, oh drunken plague without respite, / How to contain the needless celebration? Hand-shaking ceremonial and tortuous / And kisses on the street all through the night / When river's waves grow he...»
«Fever rustles and lisps / Grasshopper hours are churning, / And dry stove crackles — This / Means that red silk is burning. Why do mice whet with their molars / Thinning bottom of life spent — / There a swallow for her daughter / Has my shuttle's thread unbent. On the roof the rain...»
«My dry and dreary life / Fire has burned down / Not a stone but tree / I am singing now. It is light and rough; / From a single piece / Come the fisher's oars / And the oak pith. Nail the pilings tighter, / Knock, hammers, with all might, / About the wooden heaven / Where everyth...»