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!
«2 No more so rich are the gifts of the Gods; / even the river is different now. / Through wide and widening sunset gates / the doves of Venus fly away. And I, stretched out on the cooling sand, / soon into numberless days go forth. / Like a snake, looking back at his old bright skin — ...»
«(for S. Ephron) 1 The bell towers are ringing / somewhere in the Kremlin / somewhere in my homeland / somewhere Towers are ringing / abandoned, ringing / where on this earth? My fortress / my laughter / my dream / my light / of narrow feet, the footsteps deftly flung out / i...»
«(for S. Ephron) 2 I shall lift my arms / my empty hands / through the black window / and fling myself / down the midnight clanging / of the clock tower / home. I would go home / like this: head down / from the noisy tower. Home, / not against the cobblestoned square / but into ...»
«There is no name for thee! / ’Tis beyond all mortal cunning / To reveal what charm is thine. There is no lyre for thee! / What can song do? 'tis false witness / Come too late with news of thee. If we could only hear / What the heart says, what a power / Would be in its hymn to thee! ...»