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!
«I today all night long could not sleep / From the magickal month-of-May noise! / Quietly pulled on the pantyhose / And to the window slipped. I'm a rebel with whirlwind in the blood, / Only passion and cold matter to me. / I have read Bourge too: One can't be / Happy when one is unloved...»
«Here's the world, where glass-cases are shining, / Here's Tverskaya — we miss it eternally. / Whom does Asya need more than Marina? / Whom does dear Asya need more than me? In a lively row walking, drinking / Sunset, voices, lights, — all that's there, / And at times lowering our ey...»
«My friend, you will ask, who ordains / that the speech of a blessed fool should burn? Let's scatter our words / As the garden scatters amber zest, / Absentmindedly and generously / Bit by bit by bit. Let's not discuss / Why the leaves are patterned / So formally / With ruby and lemon...»
«Ring, sing, oblivion preventing, / The words "fifteen years old" in my soul. / Why, did I grow up and become big? / Nothing consoles. Just yesterday, into green grove of birches / Free, in the morning I ran away. / Just yesterday I frolicked without hairdo, / Just yesterday! Spring rin...»