Mother, blind, stares in the window;
Answering spring her wrinkles laugh.
But her heart is dedicated to ache,
With growing pain it beats in the sun.
We need neither light nor beauty!
We need no blessings from outside!
How my son in his distant exile
Counts the deathly hours in his cell.
Слепая мать глядит в окно,
Весне морщинками смеется.
Но сердце, горю отдано,
Больней на солнце бьется.
Не надо света и красы!
Не надо вешней благодати!
Считает мертвые часы
Мой сын в далеком каземате.
«A monument, unforged, I for myself erected. / A common path to it will not be ever lost, / And its unheedful head reigns higher than respected, / The known Alexandrian Post. I shall not die a whole, but in the tokened lyre / My soul will outlive my flesh and won't decay. / I will be honou...»
«Not made by human hand my pillar-like creation, / The people’s path thereto will never disappear, / Like Alexander’s post that rises over nations / My Monument will certainly endear. I will not wholly die — the soul in a sacred lyre / Will outlive my dust and will escape decay — / ...»
«February. Get your ink and weep. / Write about February in sobs, / So long as squelching slush and sleet / Burn with the spring of blackened blobs. Then hire a cab. Through peals of church bells, / Through joyous screeches of the wheels, / To where the downpour thunders loudest / And dr...»
«I drink the bitterness of primroses and autumn skies, / They hold the burning torrents of your faithlessness: / The bitterness of evenings, nights, and human crowds, / I drink my sobbing stanzas’ sodden bitterness. To workshops incubi — all soberness is foe. / We hate the safety of the ...»