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!
«All through his life he drew the scenes of war. / One starless night, he hit a mine at dawn / And traveled to the bottom with the ship, / His final picture incompletely drawn. All through his life, they came to him for cures, / He fought a furious battle against death / And died, from sel...»
«to Valentina Serova You used to say to me "I love you!", / But that was through your teeth, at night, / The truth was "I put up with you". / — You almost said it in the light. I could believe your lips in darkness, / The wicked magic of your bed, / But though the words you spoke were h...»
«to Valentina Serova The major brought the boy out on the gun; / His mother dead, unwept, no time for tears. / He was a child for whom the last ten days / In this world or the next will count as years. They brought him from the fortress, Brest-Litovsk, / Bullets had scarred and scratched th...»
«to Alexei Surkov Remember, Alyosha, the roads of Smolenshchina, / Remember the rain and the mud and the pain, / The women, exhausted, who brought milk in pitchers, / And clasped them like babies at breast, from the rain. The whispering words as we passed them — "God bless you!" / The eye...»