Drowsily an aged pine
rustles in her sleep.
Leaning on her coarse-grained trunk
Here I stand and speak.
«little pine-tree, just my age,
Give me of your strength!
Not the usual nine months,
forty years I carried,
forty years I had been bearing,
forty years I had been begging,
begged my heart out, got by pleading,
brought to term
my soul.»
Дремлет старая сосна
И шумит со сна.
Я, к шершавому стволу
Прислонясь, стою.
— Сосенка-ровесница,
Передай мне силу!
Я не девять месяцев, —
Сорок лет носила,
Сорок лет вынашивала,
Сорок лет выпрашивала,
Вымолила, выпросила,
Выносила
Душу.
«I hate the roar of giant cities, neighborhoods, / I am repulsed by crowd commotion, / My spirit lives in depths of woods, / Where in secluded calm devotion / I hark to music of unseen sweet voices' moods, / ...»
«This woman! I grow mute and hazy. / Because of this, see, I avert my eyes. / I don’t trust the cuckoos or the daisies, / And I don’t visit Gypsies for advice. They’ll be preaching: do not love her, / They’ll be screeching: it is all deceit, / They will prophesy, foretell, foreshad...»
«What did I say to Maria the nurse / when I was hugging her? / "You know that officer’s daughters / don’t look on us soldiers." And the field of clovers was beneath us / quite like the river. / And the waves of the clovers became higher / and we swayed upon them. And Maria, opening ...»
«What's friendship? The hangover's languid burn, / restless talk of being spurned, / swapping vanity, slacking / or the shame of a patron’s backing.»