I raise my glass to a road in the forest
To those who fall on their way
To those who can't drag themselves farther
But are forced to drag on.
To their bluish hard lips
To their identical faces
To their torn, frost-covered coats
To their hands without gloves
To the water they sip, from an old tin can
To the scurvy which sticks to their teeth.
To the teeth of fattened gray dogs
Which awake them in the morning
To the sullen sun,
Which regards them without interest
To the snow-white tombstones,
The work of clever snowstorms
To the ration of raw, sticky bread
Swallowed quickly
To the pale, too high sky
To the Ayan-Yuryakh River!
Я поднял стакан за лесную дорогу,
За падающих в пути,
За тех, что брести по дороге не могут,
Но их заставляют брести.
За их синеватые жесткие губы,
За одинаковость лиц,
За рваные, инеем крытые шубы,
За руки без рукавиц.
За мерку воды – за консервную банку,
Цингу, что навязла в зубах.
За зубы будящих их всех спозаранку
Раскормленных, сытых собак.
За солнце, что с неба глядит исподлобья
На то, что творится вокруг.
За снежные, белые эти надгробья,
Работу понятливых вьюг.
За пайку сырого, липучего хлеба.
Проглоченную второпях,
За бледное, слишком высокое небо,
За речку Аян-Урях!
«In the waves’ mist are both splashes of / Silver and washed-out enameled colors... / I so love the autumn mornings for the / Tender irrevocableness of their caress! And I love the foam on the shore / When it restlessly shows white... / Here, while the sky is hot, I greedily / Preserve...»
«Whirlwinds of turbid bad weather / Keep a white secret... / Bells of a bracelet will now / all silent, now ring... Dread of stolen happiness — / The honey and poison of cold lips / I thirstily drink, all filled / With the fever of voluptuousness. This dream, gray darkness, you / A...»
«Tell me, what has happened to me? Why / Has my heart begun to beat so ardently? / What wave of madness has forced its / Way through the stone of habit? In my agitation I do not feel at once / Whether my strength or my torment is / In it: I catch a forgotten phrase from / The shimmering ...»
«This cannot be, / This is a forgery... / The day was so drawn out and lived to its end, / Or not lived through but exhausted?.. / This cannot be... / From that very time there has been / Some kind of lump in my throat... / Nonsense... ...»