His eyes are like faded burdock.
He clasps the coins in his hands.
He was a glorious shepherd,
Now he sings of times past.
And in the corner, an old woman
Sheds tears in front of an icon.
She used to be his beloved,
His drunk nectar in a green meadow.
Dry dust coats the scrolls of years.
No bygones to sandbank dawn.
Only a gnawed-up crutch,
As always, clatters in his hands.
Now she’s a stranger to him.
She’s forgotten his piercing flute.
And when she rushes out the door,
She’ll drop a kopeck in his palm.
He will not look in her eyes.
Eyes meeting would be too painful.
But, crossing himself in the icon corner,
He’ll pray for God’s servant by name.
Глаза — как выцветший лопух,
В руках зажатые монеты.
Когда-то славный был пастух,
Теперь поёт про многи лета.
А вон старушка из угла,
Что слёзы льёт перед иконой,
Она любовь его была
И пьяный сок в меже зелёной.
На свитках лет сухая пыль.
Былого нет в заре куканьшей.
И лишь обгрызанный костыль
В его руках звенит, как раньше.
Она чужда ему теперь,
Забыла звонкую жалейку.
И как пойдёт, спеша, за дверь,
Подаст в ладонь ему копейку.
Он не посмотрит ей в глаза,
При встрече глаз больнее станет,
Но, покрестясь на образа,
Рабу по имени помянет.
«How is your life with that other one? / Simpler, is it? A stroke of the oars / and a long coastline — / and the memory of me is soon a drifting island / (not in the ocean — in the sky!) / Souls — you will be sisters — / sisters, not lovers. How is your life with an ordinary / ...»
«How is living with another? / Simpler? The thud of oars! — / Memories of me soon start to / Drift like wave-lines by the shores, I’m the island in the distance, / (Not on water! — in the sky!) / Souls! — You’re destined to be sisters / And not lovers in this life! How is li...»
«“I’m not leaving! — This isn’t the end!” And she clings and clings... / But in her breast — the swell / Of looming waters, / Of notes... Count on it: sealed as / A sacrament: we’re bound to leave each other!»
«He flaunts by a lot of bright rings on his hand — / The symbols of girls’ hearts subdued by his brand. / / There the diamond exults, and the opal there dreams, / And crimson of the ruby so whimsically gleams. Yet on the insipid hand there is no my ring, / To no one ever I will give ...»