Not for safe-keeping for awhile, –
For the altar, not donation, –
For the fire, the fire, its oblation
Rapt Israel brought in times gone by!
And pleasing to Jehovah’s nostrils
Was smoke from sacrificial fires,
Because a consecrated offering
In truth, can not be taken back…
You, pastors of the flocks of Christ,
Merchants with a priestly ranking!
What is your gift? A simple price:
Deposit and withdrawal banking!
And Israel, your ancient torch
Shall shine above the world again,
The cross atop the church is stained
And God is clearly not within!
Не на храненье до поры, —
На жертвенник, а не в копилку, —
В огонь, в огонь Израиль пылкий
Издревле нес свои дары!
И дымный жертвенный пожар
Ноздрям Господним был приятен,
Затем, что посвященный дар
Поистине был безвозвратен...
Вы, пастыри Христовых стад,
Купцы с апостольской осанкой!
Что ваша жертва? Только вклад:
Внесли и вынули из банка!
И оттого твой древний свет
Над миром всходит вновь, Израиль,
Что крест над церковью истаял
И в этой церкви Бога нет!
«Three shabby straps begin to flutter / Like in the golden years again, / And sticking in the slushy gutter / The motley spokes can hardly gain. / / Oh Russia, wretched Russia, dear, / Your houses, so grey and rough, / Your songs that blow, up in the air, / Appear as clear as tear...»
«High up, above the sleepy world, / The kite flies round drawing circles / And watching the deserted wold. / At home the mom her sunny suckles: / "Now take it, suck the breast, be good, / Grow, bear your cross of babyhood". / / The years fly over, full of drama, / With wars and vill...»
«He was born painlessly, in bless, / But we are born in awful torments, / Yet, even heavens will be stressed, / When heard the song that now floats. Not a sweet voice, but fierce cries / Will cut the womb, so dark and heavy: / The sightless embryo denies / His coffin-like ways for beha...»
«What if my poems, bright or gloom, / Just at beginning end? / They are all happy: brides and grooms, / One who was dying — dead. With clear words the novels done, / End with big dots, at least; / One knows who’s a wid., Arman, / Whose daughter Lisa is. But there is not a chance to...»