People in love, casting
long looks, long sighs.
Beasts in love, raising
dregs in their eyes,
choked on their bits of foam.
Suns in love, covering
night with a weft of earth,
dancing to meet, to mate.
Gods in love, forming
the trembling universe
into verse,
like Pushkin his passion
for Volkonskaia’s maid.
Люди, когда они любят,
Делающие длинные взгляды
И испускающие длинные вздохи.
Звери, когда они любят,
Наливающие в глаза муть
И делающие удила из пены.
Солнца, когда они любят,
Закрывающие ночи тканью из земель
И шествующие с пляской к своему другу.
Боги, когда они любят,
Замыкающие в меру трепет вселенной,
Как Пушкин — жар любви горничной Волконского.
«Echo answers like a bird. / Pasternak 1 The inimitable voice ceased yesterday, / He’s abandoned us, the talker with groves. / He’s become the life-giving ear of grain, / Or the softest rain of which he sang. / And all the flowers of this world, / Blossomed to signify his death. / ...»
«Fumbling in black memory you’ll find / Those same long gloves, / A Petersburg night. And the air, / Close and sweet, of some dark box. And a wind from the gulf. And there, / Between the lines, the cries on-stage, / Blok smiling scornfully at you, / He, the tragic tenor of his age. »
«It’s not sombre or funereal, / It’s nearly as transparent as smoke, / This newlywed’s obsolete / Filmy, black and white hat. / And the aquiline profile beneath, / The satin of Parisian bangs, / And an eye, oblong and green, / And an eye, sharp and intense.»
«And it seemed to me those fires / Were about me till dawn. / And I never learnt — / The colour of those eyes. / Everything was trembling, singing; / Were you my friend or enemy, / And winter was it, or summer? »