Our Passion’s still carefree, still young,
still hasn’t cut her teeth, —
she isn’t vodka, nor spirits, but she’s no longer water —
she’s a bubbly, rakish, chiming Asti.
You don’t know yet to turn pale when I’m close,
your pupil doesn’t fill your whole eye yet,
but I know the spell I’ve placed you in
is stronger than Kashin or Kashira.
Oh, where’s that small town lost in the gardens
(maybe it’s not even on the map?),
toward which my dream is sprinting
in some sixteen-year-old passion?
Where’s the jasmined house, with its open night,
and above us, hops, in their curling arches,
and a thirst that can’t be helped,
and the sky, and the sky more romantic than Petrarch’s sky!
On the eve of my last or my next-to-last spring
— oh, how late our meeting finally came! —
with you, I dream madcap dreams,
in a crazy, magic fire I burn up my own twilight!
Она беззаботна еще, она молода,
Еще не прорезались зубы у Страсти, —
Не водка, не спирт, но уже не вода,
А пенистое, озорное, певучее Асти.
Еще не умеешь бледнеть, когда подхожу,
Еще во весь глаз твой зрачок не расширен,
Но знаю, я в мыслях твоих ворожу
Сильнее, чем в ласковом Кашине или Кашире.
О, где же затерянный этот в садах городок
(Быть может, совсем не указан на карте?),
Куда убегает мечта со всех ног
В каком-то шестнадцатилетнем азарте?
Где домик с жасмином, и гостеприимная ночь,
И хмеля над нами кудрявые арки,
И жажда, которой уж нечем помочь,
И небо, и небо страстнее, чем небо Петрарки!
В канун последней иль предпоследней весны
— О, как запоздала она, наша встреча! —
Я вижу с тобой сумасшедшие сны,
В свирепом, в прекрасном пожаре сжигаю свой вечер!
«My poems, written early, when I doubted / that I could ever play the poet’s part, / erupting, as though water from the fountain / or sparks from a petard, / and rushing as though little demons, senseless, / into the sanctuary, where incense spreads, / my poems about death and adolescen...»
«You, walking past me and racing / After charms that you’ll hardly attain, — / If you knew how much fire is wasted, / How much life is wasted in vain! And what flames, so courageously rash, / An occasional shade can evoke, / And how my heart was burnt into ash / By this useless gunpo...»
«You walk, somewhat like myself, / Hunched, and not looking up. / I used to lower my eyes as well! / Stop here, passerby, stop! Having gathered your flowers in a / Bouquet, read the stone by the gate — / It will say I was named Marina, / And I lived to the following date. It’s a gra...»
«Into this chasm, many fell, / It’s gaping wide! / My time will come and I, as well, / Will go one night. And all that struggled, shone, rejoiced / Will be ensnared — / My emerald eyes, my gentle voice, / My golden hair. Your daily bread will come. You’ll live / Without a pause....»