Tears... again these bitter tears,
For broken dreams that flew far away,
For dreaded sadness that nothing cheers,
For new darkness, that nothing keeps at bay.
What is to come? More such torment?
No, its enough... It is time to rest, let go,
And to forget the sounds of lament,
A heart is full and can stand it no more.
Who is singing in the shade of the birch tree?
The sounds are familiar — the tears again...
These tears are for my homeland and to me
They are full of longing, worry and pain.
I am in my beloved country; yet, my grave —
Heart languishes in tears, I weep...
Now it seems that only in a cold grave
I will be able to forget and find some sleep.
Слёзы… опять эти горькие слёзы,
Безотрадная грусть и печаль;
Снова мрак… и разбитые грёзы
Унеслись в бесконечную даль.
Что же дальше? Опять эти муки?
Нет, довольно… Пора отдохнуть
И забыть эти грустные звуки,
Уж и так истомилася грудь.
Кто поёт там под сенью берёзы?
Звуки будто знакомые мне —
Это слёзы опять… Это слёзы
И тоска по родной стороне.
Но ведь я же на родине милой,
А в слезах истомил свою грудь.
Эх… лишь, видно, в холодной могиле
Я забыться могу и заснуть.
«Black goats I herded with my sister; they / Grazed by red rocks; the grass rose stiff and stinging. / Warming their backs, stones to the foot-hills clinging / Slept dumbly on. And sheer blue shone the bay. / By the gnarled silver of an olive flinging / My drowsy limbs, in its dry shade I l...»
«From the walls the paper's blue is vanished, / The daguerreotypes, the ikons banished. / Only there the deepened blue appears / Where these hid it, hanging through the years. From the heart the memory is perished, / Perished all that long ago it cherished! / Those remain, of whom death hi...»
«She sits on tumulus Savoor, and stares, / Old woman Death, upon the crowded road. / Like a blue flame the small flax-flower flares / Thick through the meadows sowed. And says old woman Death: "Hey, traveler! / Does any one want linen, linen fit / For funeral wear? A shroud, madam or sir, ...»
«Warmth and light, buzzing bumblebees, wheat ears and grasses, / Azure skies — of high summer the birth… / To his prodigal son will the Lord say: "Confess, pray — / Have you known true contentment on earth?" And forgetting all else save the golden and endless / Fields of wheat, the ser...»