They look anew with sightless eyes
Mother of God and the Savior-Child.
It smells of incense, oil, and wax.
The church fills up with quiet weeping.
The candles melt by the young meek woman
In the numb and stiff little fist.
Ah, lead me away from my death,
You, whose hands are tan and fresh,
You, arousing whatever you go past!
Is it not the wind of all stormy shores
In your despairing name,
O, Marina, name-sister of the sea!
Смотрят снова глазами незрячими
Матерь Божья и Спаситель-Младенец.
Пахнет ладаном, маслом и воском.
Церковь тихими полнится плачами.
Тают свечи у юных смиренниц
В кулачке окоченелом и жестком.
Ах, от смерти моей уведи меня,
Ты, чьи руки загорелы и свежи,
Ты, что мимо прошла, раззадоря!
Не в твоем ли отчаянном имени
Ветер всех буревых побережий,
О, Марина, соименница моря!
«We’ve done enough, we’ve said enough — / let’s sit in silence, without smiling; / low-lying clouds are shedding snow / and heaven’s light is slowly fading. The brittle willows rage and split / in an unspeakable pitched battle. / "Until tomorrow, then," I say. / "As for today, ...»
«At blazing noon, in Dagestan’s deep valley, / a bullet in my chest, dead still I lay, / as steam yet rose above my wound, I tallied / each drop of blood, as life now now seeped away. Alone I lay within a sandy hollow, / as jagged ledges teemed there, rising steep, / with sun-scorched pe...»
«We pronounced / the simplest, poorest words / as if they had never been said. / We were saying / sun, light, grass / as people pronounce / life, love, strength. Remembered how we cleared / that eternal, accursed glacier / from the city streets — and an old man / stamped his foot...»
«He did not return, even after his death, to / That ancient city he was rooted in. / Going away, he did not pause for breath / Nor look back. My song is for him. / Torches, night, a last embrace, / Fate, a wild howl, at his threshold. / Out of hell he sent her his curse / And in heaven ...»