Tramp squares with rebellious treading!
Up heads! As proud peaks be seen!
In the second flood we are spreading
Every city on earth will be clean.
Pied days plod.
Slowly the years’ waggons come.
Speed’s our god.
Hearts are beating a drum.
What gold is than ours diviner?
Can the waspy bullets sting?
Than our songs no weapons are finer.
Our gold is in shouts that ring.
Green let the grass grow,
Covering days past.
Rainbow, gleam, glow.
Let galloping years travel fast.
Do not look to the stars or bother;
Without them our singing shall blow.
Oh, ask, Great Bear, our mother,
That alive to the stars we go!
Drink of delight I Drink I Shout!
Veins with the spring-flood thrumming.
Hearts up ! Strike out!
Our breasts are brass cymbals drumming.
Бейте в площади бунтов топот!
Выше, гордых голов гряда!
Мы разливом второго потопа
перемоем миров города.
Дней бык пег.
Медленна лет арба.
Наш бог бег.
Сердце наш барабан.
Есть ли наших золот небесней?
Нас ли сжалит пули оса?
Наше оружие — наши песни.
Наше золото — звенящие голоса.
Зеленью ляг, луг,
выстели дно дням.
Радуга, дай дуг
лет быстролётным коням.
Видите, скушно звезд небу!
Без него наши песни вьем.
Эй, Большая Медведица! требуй,
чтоб на небо нас взяли живьем.
Радости пей! Пой!
В жилах весна разлита.
Сердце, бей бой!
Грудь наша — медь литавр.
«The pain appeared to be relentless: / The night was burning low outside; / She wrung her arms like she was senseless, / And they would shimmer in the light. / The meaningless life, nearly ending, / Continued to torture and scold; / As thought a ghost that was ascending, / The day revea...»
«I’m nailed to the tavern counter. / I’m drunk already, but not through. / The happiness that I’ve encountered / The troika took into the blue... It flew off in the sleigh, and drowned / In snows of time, beyond the sky... / And silver haze, raised from the ground, / Just whipped m...»
«You’re like a temple, tall and white. / You’re pure and bright like virgin snow, / I don’t believe this lengthy night / And hopeless evenings, full of woe. My soul, itself, is desecrated, / And I won’t trust it anymore. / Perhaps, a traveler belated, — / I’ll knock against y...»
«I’ll never forget it (did it happen or not, / This evening): The setting sun’s blaze / Drew open the sky and burned it, red hot, / And the streetlamps shone — in its rays. / I sat by the window and leaned on the pane. / Distant bows sang something of love. / I sent you a black rose...»