I’m neither flesh, nor spirit yet
And daily bread seems hardly needed,
As if my punctured finger bled
Not blood, but sky drops faintly sleeted.
And there are times when pouring wine
Up to the brim feels hardly ample,
When bread all drenched in salty brine
Does not singe lips, tastes eerie gentle.
And stuffy dreams are whispering
That I’ll be tried by my own essence
Dispensing her capricious whims
Like pregnant wives, the loath despots.
Oh, murky, murky, murky way,
Why are you murky, unrelenting?
As if a slightly pulled up drape
Is being promptly drawn descending!
And I must raise myself to God
To crush at night like a dead stone,
And wait, and wait until I’m thawed
And burned by lazy flames through bone.
Еще не дух, почти не плоть,
Так часто мне не надо хлеба,
И мнится: палец уколоть, —
Не кровь, а капнет капля неба.
Но есть часы: стакан налью
Вином до края — и не полон,
И хлеб мой добела солю,
А он губам моим не солон.
И душные мне шепчут сны,
Что я еще от тела буду,
Как от беременной жены,
Терпеть причуду за причудой.
О, темный, темный, темный путь,
Зачем так темен ты и долог?
О, приоткрывшийся чуть-чуть,
Чтоб снова запахнуться, полог!
Себя до Бога донести,
Чтоб снова в ночь упасть, как камень,
И ждать, покуда до кости
Тебя прожжет ленивый пламень!
«O mistress earth! Before thee have I knelt, / And through the fragrances that thee begird, / The glowing of a kindred heart I felt, / The throbbing of a living world I heard. / In noon-tide beams with such enraptured blaze / The bounty of the radiant skies was sent, / With whose still lu...»
«Amid the morning hazes, wavering of pace, / I journeyed to a secret, wonder-laden shore; / The daybreak strove to quench the straggling starry trace; / Dreams still were on the wing, and held in their embrace, / My spirit sought unfathomed godheads to adore. Upon a lonely journey in a chill...»
«The court of my empress is lofty of height, / With seven golden pillars around. / The crown of my empress is sevenfold bedight, / With jewels unnumbered 'tis bound. And in the green garden, my empress' own, / The roses and lilies bloom fair; / In the waves of a silvery streamlet is thrown...»
«Sunset dreams on fir-tre cones, / Green — the hedge, and brown — the field; / Mossy rifts in weathered stones / Meekly vernal waters yield. Oh, look up the wooded steep — / God has touched it with his palm; / Piously wild berries weep, / Listening to the grassy psa...»