To E. K. Gertsyk
When the love of flesh fades,
So goes the desire to create.
Your fingers don’t long to handle clay
Or chisel shadows into marble.
Your song halts in mid-word,
The brush freezes in mid-stroke —
Surprise…how little they matter.
Farewell, farewell to you, sublime lust!
The spirit’s last lingering joy.
Е. К. Герцык
Кто разлюбляет плоть, хладеет к воплощенью:
Почти не тянется за глиною рука.
Уже не вылепишь ни льва, ни голубка,
Не станет мрамором, что наплывает тенью.
На полуслове — песнь, на полувзмахе — кисть
Вдруг остановишь ты, затем что их — не надо...
Прощай, прощай и ты, прекрасная корысть,
Ты, духа предпоследняя услада!
«In her shameless and pathetic baseness, / Like dust, she is gray, like mortal remains. / And I am dying of this fatal closeness, / Because she cannot be dissolved from me. She is rough and she is thorny; / She is cold — she is a snake. / I am wounded all over by her sickly-burning, / ...»
«There, where red water from the sunrise / Seems spilled across the cabbage rows, / A maple sapling stretches to nurse / From its mother tree’s green udders.»
«It’s evening. Dew / Sparkles the nettles. / I stand in the roadway / Resting among willows. Moon’s light is strong / Striking our roofs. / I listen to the song, / Nightingales far off. It’s warm and nice / Like winter by a stove. / Like tall candles / Birches stand above. ...»
«For A. M Remizov Riveted in place on her shattered paw / She had curled near to her den. / A thin trickle of blood in the snow / Framed her face’s pain. The shot and bristly smoke remained / In her eyes from its burst from the fen. / From the scrubby bushes like wind / Pellets had sc...»