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.
«Oh see the first lily of the valley! / From under the snow it asks only for / The sun’s beams; virgin luxury / In your fresh and fragrant pure odor! Bright as the first ray of spring! / What dreams descend upon it! / How enchantingly you betoken / How wildly spring will soon erupt! F...»
«It sounded above the clear river, / It rang out in the fading meadow, / It swept above the silent grove, / It lit up the opposite shore. Into the distant twilight / The river wound to the west. / Clouds, losing their gold hems, / Drifted like billows of smoke. From the hillock — firs...»
«He arrived back, a blue glacier, / Those nights from Tamara, / And then and again his wings marked / Where whir and nightmare should end. He did not sob, did not bind up / The exposed lash-striped scars. / His slab has survived beyond / The fence of a Georgian church. How strange that ...»
«Later on, there was the loft with hay / And it smelled like a wine cork / While August ran out of days / And weeds took over like the tropics. In the grass, on the sorrel, beads / Of sullen diamonds hung, / Chilling the taste-buds / Reminding of Riesling. September made headlines / D...»