And truly, one cannot predict
Who in the world will be one’s reader:
A ball can’t know what it will hit
Once it’s shot into the distance.
Well, then, my life-creating verse,
Whom I breathe and in whom I live,
Fly off into darkness, into the void,
Or simply, into the secret drawer!
Our path was blocked at midpoint by
A cruel century. But we’re not complaining, –
Let it be! And yet, and in the main, it’s
A splendid thing, this century!
Perhaps it has no use for verse,
Or for names and patronymics,
Or for separate lonelinesses, –
Still, it kneads the mash of centuries!
И вправду, угадать хитро,
Кто твой читатель в мире целом:
Ведь пущенное в даль ядро
Не знает своего прицела.
Ну что же, — в темень, в пустоту.
— А проще: в стол, в заветный ящик —
Лети, мой стих животворящий,
Кем я дышу и в ком расту!
На полпути нам путь пресек
Жестокий век. Но мы не ропщем, —
Пусть так! А все-таки, а в общем
Прекрасен этот страшный век!
И пусть ему не до стихов,
И пусть не до имен и отчеств,
Не до отдельных одиночеств, —
Он месит месиво веков!
«How good, in the freshness of fall, / To let the wind shake the soul’s apple tree / And to watch the plough of the sun / Cut through water above the river. How good to strike out of one’s body / A nail that turns songs red-hot, / To put on festive white clothes / And to wait for a g...»
«The rude are destined for joy; / The tender are destined for sadness. / I pity nothing; / I pity no one. I pity myself a bit; / I pity stray dogs. / This path has led me straight / To a tavern. Why are you yelling, you devils? / Am I not my country’s son? / Everyone here has pawn...»
«Even now, little by little, we are departing / For that land of silence and grace. / Pretty soon I too may have to pack / My measly belongings. My dear birch thickets! / Earth! And you, sands of plains! / Faced with the throng of departing / I cannot hide my anguish. I care too much fo...»
«One dawn calls out to another, / Smoke blows over smooth wheat… / I’m thinking of you, my dear, / My senile mother. Walking up the hill, like you used to, / Clutching your crutch in hand, / You look at the stump of the moon / That drifts down the somnolent river. And I know you’r...»