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!
«Storms circle round the village, / And through anguished rain, / Flashes of lightning shatter / The sky once again. / It pours as from a flask, / And above assembled birches / A feast of electricity and rain / In fury and chaos merges. / But we walk along the road / Among the bush...»
«Pavillions spread over the square, / The maple leaves kiss the stars. / It's night — a celebration there, / Merriment and festivity in the park. / But when a pyrotechnist hurls / A silvery light from tree-tops to sky, / Poet, don't put your trust / In the night's fantastic bursts. /...»
«Behind an old house, a forest, / In front, a field of oats, / In the sky, a cloud, a silver sphere, / Unprecedented beauty boasts. / With edges vaguely lilac-tinted, / The center threatening and bright... / A wing of a wounded swan somewhere / Drifts slowly out of sight. / And down b...»
«Poets, you should love painting! / For it alone / Can portray on canvas / Signs of an unsettled soul. Remember how Struiskaya, / Draped in satin, looked at us / Out of Rokotov's portrait / From the depths of the past? Her eyes were two clouds, / Half-smiling, half-weeping, / Like t...»