The sea-coast.
Sky. Stars. I’m quiet. I’m lying down.
My pillow’s neither a stone, nor feathers:
A sailor’s worn-throught boot.
Samorodov wore it in those red days
When he led the revolt
And moved ship of the white to Krasnovodsk,
To the red waters.
Getting darker. Darkened.
«Comrad, come on, help me!»
A black, cast-iron Persian calls
Picking up brush-wood from the earth.
I tightened the strap
And helped him to shoulder it.
«Saul» (meaning «thank you»).
He got lost in the dark.
And in the dark I whispered
The name of Mehdi.
Mehdi?
A beetle who flew from the black
Noisy sea,
Making for me,
Encircled my head two times
Folded his wing and landed in my hair,
Kept silent and then
Suddenly squeaked,
Distinctly said a well-known word
In the tongue we two understood.
His saying was firm but tender.
Enough! All was clear for two of us!
The dark treaty of night
Was signed by the beetle’s squeak.
With his wings lifted up like sails,
He flew away.
The sea erased both the squeak and the kiss
on the sand.
Yes, it was.
Everything’s true.
Морской берег.
Небо. Звезды. Я спокоен. Я лежу.
А подушка — не камень, не перья:
Дырявый сапог моряка.
В них Самородов в красные дни
На море поднял восстанье
И белых суда увел в Красноводск,
В красные воды.
Темнеет. Темно.
«Товарищ, иди, помогай!» —
Иранец зовет, черный, чугунный,
Подымая хворост с земли.
Я ремень затянул
И помог взвалить.
«Саул!» ( «Спасибо» по-русски.)
Исчез в темноте.
Я же шептал в темноте
Имя Мехди.
Мехди?
Жук, летевший прямо с черного
Шумного моря,
Держа путь на меня,
Сделал два круга над головой
И, крылья сложив, опустился на волосы.
Тихо молчал и после
Вдруг заскрипел,
Внятно сказал знакомое слово
На языке, понятном обоим.
Он твердо и ласково сказал свое слово.
Довольно! Мы поняли друг друга!
Темный договор ночи
Подписан скрипом жука.
Крылья подняв, как паруса,
Жук улетел.
Море стерло и скрип и поцелуй на песке.
Это было!
Это верно до точки!
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«Here you have the cruelty that’s hardest. / Its sole sense is to give people pain. / And like cutting swans below the gullet, / The scythe cuts off heavy heads of grain. Our field long has shaken with the shudder / That the usual August morning leaves. / Everywhere the bound, yellow cad...»
«I have no regrets, retreats or weepings. / Smoke from white apple trees: all will go. / Gripped as I am by the gold of withering, / I will not be young again, I know. Heart of mine, touched by the chill already. / You will not be beating anymore. / And the calico birches will never / Co...»
«I’ve decided, now, to abandon / My home fields which I no more shall see. / And the poplars will no longer rustle / Their winged foliage above over me. The low house will crouch lower without me; / My old dog has been long gone by now. / It seems God has me destined to perish / On the...»