Your pensive sigh is calling me
To warm light, to my native threshold
Where grandmother and grandfather sit on the porch
Awaiting their spirited sunflower-aged grandson.
Their grandson is slim and white as a birch,
With honey hair and velvet hands.
Except, o my friend, I see from his blue eyes —
They’re only dreaming of his worldly life.
The bright Virgin in the icon corner
Beams joy into their darkness.
With a quiet smile on her thin lips
She holds their grandson in her arms.
К тёплому свету, на отчий порог,
Тянет меня твой задумчивый вздох.
Ждут на крылечке там бабка и дед
Резвого внука подсолнечных лет.
Строен и бел, как берёзка, их внук,
С мёдом волосьев и бархатом рук.
Только, о друг, по глазам голубым —
Жизнь его в мире пригрезилась им.
Шлёт им лучистую радость во мглу
Светлая дева в иконном углу.
С тихой улыбкой на тонких губах
Держит их внука она на руках.
«Into this chasm, many fell, / It’s gaping wide! / My time will come and I, as well, / Will go one night. And all that struggled, shone, rejoiced / Will be ensnared — / My emerald eyes, my gentle voice, / My golden hair. Your daily bread will come. You’ll live / Without a pause....»
«The august day was softly fleeting / Into the twilight’s golden dust. / The noisy streetcars passed by, speeding. / And people passed. With no intention, absent-minded, / I took the quiet street, alone, / And church-bells sang somewhere behind me / Their quiet song. I thought of you ...»
«I never think or argue, or whine to any one. / I do not sleep. / I strive for neither sea, nor moon, nor sun, / Nor for the ship. I don’t perceive the warmth indoors or / The greenery of grass. / I don’t await the gift I wished for / To come at last. Neither the morning nor the str...»
«Beneath the plush plaid’s sweet caresses, / I piece together last night’s dream. / Who’s been defeated? — Who’s successful? — / What has it been? Rethinking everything once more, / I’m tortured and the pain persists. / In this, for which I know no word, / Did love exist? ...»