Along far beaches of uncharted seas
the moon —
my wife — goes driving.
She’s redhaired, my beloved.
Behind her turnout,
a variegated throng of constellations scurries,
screaming.
She weds with a garage,
kisses newspaper kiosks,
while a fluttering-eyed page tinsels her train,
the Milky Way.
And I?
To me, ablaze, the yoke of brows
has lugged fresh pails from deep-eyed wells.
In lacustrine silks you hung,
an amber fiddle chanting in your thighs?
You threw no baited line
into the regions of malignant roofs.
In sands’ nostalgia bathed, I drown in boulevards;
for that's your daughter —
my song
in mesh of stocking gliding
by the coffee houses!
Морей неведомых далеким пляжем
идет луна —
жена моя.
Моя любовница рыжеволосая.
За экипажем
крикливо тянется толпа созвездий пестрополосая.
Венчается автомобильным гаражом,
целуется газетными киосками,
а шлейфа млечный путь моргающим пажем
украшен мишурными блестками.
А я?
Несло же, палимому, бровей коромысло
из глаз колодцев студеные ведра.
В шелках озерных ты висла,
янтарной скрипкой пели бедра?
В края, где злоба крыш,
не кинешь блесткой песни.
В бульварах я тону, тоской песков овеян:
ведь это ж дочь твоя —
моя песня
в чулке ажурном
у кофеен!
«Here you have the cruelty that’s hardest. / Its sole sense is to give people pain. / And like cutting swans below the gullet, / The scythe cuts off heavy heads of grain. Our field long has shaken with the shudder / That the usual August morning leaves. / Everywhere the bound, yellow cad...»
«I have no regrets, retreats or weepings. / Smoke from white apple trees: all will go. / Gripped as I am by the gold of withering, / I will not be young again, I know. Heart of mine, touched by the chill already. / You will not be beating anymore. / And the calico birches will never / Co...»
«I’ve decided, now, to abandon / My home fields which I no more shall see. / And the poplars will no longer rustle / Their winged foliage above over me. The low house will crouch lower without me; / My old dog has been long gone by now. / It seems God has me destined to perish / On the...»
«Shoot, accordion! Boredom, O boredom... / Fingers ripple like waves of the sea. / Drink with me, lousy wench of a woman, / Come drink with me. You’re worn out from their love and their slobbers; / No patience, not a trace. / Then why are your blue eyes winking at me? / You want a fist...»