I, a butterfly that has flown
into the room of human life,
must leave the handwriting of my dust
like a prisoner’s signature
over the stern windows,
across fate’s strict panes.
The wallpaper of human life
is grey and sad.
And there is the windows’
transparent ‘No’.
I have worn away my deep-blue morning glow,
my patterns of dots,
my wing’s light-blue storm, first freshness.
The powder’s gone, the wings have faded
and turned transparent and hard.
Jaded, I beat
against the window of mankind.
From the other side knock eternal numbers,
summoning me to the motherland,
asking one single number
to return to all numbers.
Мне, бабочке, залетевшей
В комнату человеческой жизни,
Оставить почерк моей пыли
По суровым окнам,
На стеклах рока.
Так серы и скучны обои из мертвых растений
Человеческой жизни; пылью своей
Быть живописцем себя
На стеклах рока, большеокого рока.
Вдруг увидать открытую дверцу
В другой мир, где пение птиц и синий сквозняк,
Где мило всё, даже смерть
В зубах стрекозы.
О, улетевшая прочь пыль
И навсегда полинявшие крылья!
Окон прозрачное «нет»,
За ними шелест и пляска
Бабочек любви стучится.
Пляшет любовь бабочек высоко в ветре.
Я уже стер свое синее зарево и точек узоры
Вдоль края крыла.
Скучны и жестоки мои крылья,
Пыльца снята. Навсегда.
Бьюсь устало в окно человека.
Ветка цветущих чисел
Бьется через окно
Чужого жилища.
«All night the roosters uttered cries, / and swayed their necks like crazy, / as if they were reading rhymes / declaiming in a frenzy. / / And in those cries there was the kind / of bitterness, aroused / by the unwanted man’s defiant / appearance in the house. / / Far-far away...»
«Wherever I go I can hear / the song that has turned me on, / the best one I heard over here, / I listen again to the song. / / The singing requires more effort, / it’s raw and unripe, in fact. / However, the music is perfect, / the lyric precise and exact. / Through times yet un...»
«Money comes and goes and tears, / words are easy to forget, / grass is trampled, leaves are shed, / only faces, it appears, / will remain in their stead... / When they smile, or when in tears, / their voices can’t be heard. / / Biographical descriptions / pour from photographic ...»
«Here we stand, in desperation, / folding our arms in pride, / on the brink of separation, / at the threshold of a plight / where clocks with measured paces / stick precisely to their course, / and we keep our smiling faces / under lock and key, like doors. / Days of reconing are clos...»