On the pavement
of my trampled soul
the soles of madmen
stamp the prints of rude, crude words.
Where cities
hang
and in the noose of clouds
the towers’
crooked spires
congeal —
I go
and solitary weep
that cross-roads
crucify
policemen.
По мостовой
моей души изъезженной
шаги помешанных
вьют жестких фраз пяты.
Где города
повешены
и в петле о́блака
застыли
башен
кривые выи —
иду
один рыдать,
что перекрестком
ра́спяты
городовые.
«1. The pillow’s just as hot / when I turn it over. / And now a second candle / is guttering, and crows / are cawing louder than ever. / Not a wink... And it’s too late / even to think of sleep. / White, blindingly white — / a blind on a white window. / Good morni»
«That’s how I am. I could wish for you someone other, / Better. / I trade in happiness no longer... / Charlatans, pushers at the sales!.. / We stayed peacefully in Sochi, / Such nights, there, came to me, / And I kept hearing such bells! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ....»
«We know what trembles in the scales, / What has to be accomplished. / The hour for courage. If all else fails, / With courage we are not unfurnished. / What though the dead be crowded, each to each, / What though our houses be destroyed? — / We will preserve you, Russian speech, / Ke...»
«I feel my life hang by a hair / as I wait at night for the Muse; / youth, freedom, fame melt into air / as my guest appears with her flute. She enters, tosses back her shawl; / her half-closed eyes let nothing pass. / "So it was you who sang of Hell / to Dante?" "Yes," she says, "it wa...»