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!
«Wait for me and I’ll be back / Only wait for me, / When your sadness turns in black, / Yellow rains are free. / When the snows fall down like fate, / When there is a heat, / When the others cannot wait, / Don’t remember a bit. / Wait when from the far-far place / Letters cannot...»
«February. Get out the ink and weep! / Sob in February, sob and sing / While the wet snow rumbles in the street / And burns with the black spring. / / Take a cab. For a coin / Be carried through church bells, the chirp of tyres / To a place where the torrential rain / Is louder stil...»
«And I shall tell you at the end: / farewell, don’t pledge self to love, helpless. / I go mad, or just ascend / to the high echelon of madness. How had you loved? — You’d put aside / even the Death. But ‘tis not matter. / How had you loved? You’d done that right, / but you ...»
«No, tsarevich, it’s not I — / That you’re fancying in bliss, / Know, my lips just prophesy, / And no longer kiss. And it’s not because I’m tortured / Or by delirium swayed / That I conjure up misfortune: / It is just my trade. I can teach you this, as well, — / To achieve...»