The girls, those who pace
With boots of black eyes
Upon the flowers of my heart.
The girls who put javelins
Upon their eyelashes’ lakes.
The girls who wash their feet
In the lake of my words.
Девушки, те, что шагают
Сапогами черных глаз
По цветам моего сердца.
Девушки, опустившие копья
На озера своих ресниц.
Девушки, моющие ноги
В озере моих слов.
«In the garden there were snatches of music / Wordless, melancholy. / The sharp fresh odors of the sea / Rose from oysters on cracked ice. He said to me, / "I am faithful friend", / And touched my dress: / Unlike an embrace / The touch of that hand. So one pets a cat or a bird / So ...»
«There’s nothing to be sad about. / Sadness is a crime, a prison. / A strange impression, I have risen / From the grey canvas like a sheet. / / Up-flying arms, with a bad break, / Tormented smile — I and the sitter / Had to become thus through the bitter / Hours of profligate giv...»
«Nobody came to meet me / with a lantern, / Had to find my way up / the steps by weak moonlight / / And there he was, under / the green lamp, and / With a corpse’s smile / he whispered, "Your voice / / Is strange Cinderella…" / Fire dying in the hearth, / Cricket chirpin...»
«The road by the seaside garden darkens, / The lights are a fresh yellow. / I’m at peace; but please, don’t talk / To me about him. / You’re kind and loyal, we’ll be friends… / Walk, kiss, and be old… / Coming days will fly over us, / Lightly, like snowy stars. »