A quiet perfume from the orchard,
apple blossoms and acacia.
The boyarina is fasting
and afraid that she might fall.
Dead men float.
Last night. It was glorious, ecstatic.
Dead men pull the oars.
Cold glances above a white veil
burn and sparkle,
and sepulchral shadows hush
the sweet salt savor of a kiss.
As soon as midnight waters
lap the descending steps,
the vision slips away.
They whisper simply, «Allah bismullah...»
they slip their skulls beneath the surface
and vanish in the murmur of the waves.
White snow and tenderness descending
everywhere, like the hand of Yaroslavna
on the painted Pecheneg.
Тихий дух от яблонь веет,
Белых яблонь и черемух.
То боярыня говеет
И боится сделать промах.
Плывут мертвецы.
Гребут мертвецы.
И хладные взоры за белым холстом
Палят и сверкают.
И скроют могильные тени
Прекрасную соль поцелуя.
Лишь только о лестниц ступени
Ударят полночные струи,
Виденье растает.
Поют о простом:
«Алла бисмулла». А потом,
Свой череп бросаючи в море,
Исчезнут в морском разговоре.
Эта ночь. Так было славно.
Белый снег и всюду нега,
Точно гладит Ярославна
Голубого печенега.
«Passed joy of the crazy years in mind to bear / Is hard for me alike to dream a nightmare. / But like a wine the grief of bygone days / Becomes more strong when it an age obtains. / My way is dull: the labors and distress — / That’s all what Destiny's providing with excess. But, frie...»
«Beautiful lassies, we are you now? / You who don't answer me anymore / You who forgot all about me; / Left me behind — now my weakened voice / Wakes up the echo in vain. Have you been eaten by angry beasts? / Or by your lovers you're being kept? / Go on, answer me dearest, / I fell ...»
«Marvellous, and sad — yes, that’s what this temple / is — a joy, a temptation, a threat. / Eyes exhausted with desire / bum in the slits of confessional windows. The organ melody rises, falls, / then swells fuller and more terrible, / like blood in dark church-granite veins / riot...»
«Yes, this cathedral is both wondrous and sad, / It is: temptation, joy, and menace. / Eyes, weary with desire, / Burn in the windows of the confessionals. The organ melody swells and recedes / And swells again, fuller and more awesome. / Like blood, surging drunkenly / Through the grani...»