The night is full of constellations.
What advent, what intelligence
of freedom or restraint
shines in your wide pages, book
above me, what fate must I make out
in the wide midnight sky?
Ночь, полная созвездий.
Какой судьбы, каких известий
Ты широко сияешь, книга?
Свободы или ига?
Какой прочесть мне должно жребий
На полночью широком небе?
«Armed with wasp-vision, with the vision of wasps / that suck, suck, suck the earth's axis, / I'm filled by the whole deep vein of my life / and hold it here in my heart and in vain. And I don't draw, don't sing, / don't draw a black-voiced bow over strings: / I only drink, drink, drink in...»
«Today is the name day of Our Lady of Smolensk, / Dark blue incense drifts over the grass, / And the flowing of the Requiem / Is no longer sorrowful, but radiant. / And the rosy little widows lead / Their boys and girls to the cemetery / To visit father’s grave. / But the grave...»
«Who knows what such fame is like! / At what price did he buy the right, / The possibility or the paradise / To joke about it all so wisely and cunningly, / To be mysteriously silent, / And to call a foot a “footsie”?»
«I do not deserve this praise, rather, / And Sappho doesn’t matter in that, / I know the reason another, / But nothing of it can be read. / Let somebody save self by running, / And others — by nods from their "bliss". / These poems were all underlying / With text, that’s like look...»