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!
«I I had lots of fun today: / First the thief who pinched a pullet / From that hag across the way; / Then the horse — they tried to pull it — / Jumped and bolted like a bullet; / And the kite has flown away. But — the thief is no more free, / They have locked him in a cell; / Fo...»
«Twilight was turning to darkness outside. / Under the eaves a window banged wide. A curtain was lifted, a light briefly shone, / A swift shadow fell down the wall and was gone. Happy the man who falls head first to death: / At least for a moment his viewpoint is fresh.»
«Amidst a smoking desolation, / The worker, fist raised threateningly, / In fear and angry desperation / Confronts his cunning enemy. While, trusting to a crowd of feckless / Hands to guard the wealth he makes, / As stubborn as a stone, but reckless, / The bourgeois rages, too, and shake...»
«Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita.1 “I, I, I.” What a strange word he’s saying! / That man there — can he really be “I”? / Such a creature my mother watched playing — / Ashen skin, and the hair slightly graying, / As all-wise as a snake, and as sly? The boy dancing at count...»