It is my last appeal to You — appear.
Let's share a feast of nightly inspiration!
Magnificent, o raise me up so near
To pinnacle where doom befell creation.
Yield one last time! In life there is no course
Like farewells so holy, yet rough-watered.
As if my heart is a Lamb to be brought forth
A sacrifice led to the slaughter.
In partings we rekindle our past
And love it with theurgic disposition,
Like sons hug mothers at a firing squad
A open grave to be their last transition.
В последний раз зову Тебя: явись
На пиршество ночного вдохновенья.
В последний раз: восхить меня в ту высь,
Откуда открывается паденье.
В последний раз! Нет в жизни ничего
Святее и ужаснее прощанья.
Оно есть агнец сердца моего,
Влекомый на закланье.
В нём прошлое возлюблено опять
С уже нечеловеческою силой.
Так пред расстрелом сын объемлет мать
Над общей их могилой.
«Today was melting, and today / Before the window I did stand. / A sober look, a freer chest, / I'm satisfied just once again. I don't know why. Perhaps the soul / Has simply grown tired of it all, / And somehow the rebellious pencil / I do not wish to touch at all. Distant to good and ...»
«You were too lazy to get dressed, / Too lazy to get up for me. / And every following day for you / Would have been happy with my glee. To come so late on a cold night / Embarrassed you especially. / And every following hour for you / Would have been young with this my glee. I was the y...»
«Today, around eight, dashing through / Big Lubanka straight ahead, / Like bullet, like snowball, / Somewhere rushed the sled. Already the laughter rang... / I froze as I peered: / Red down of the hair / And somebody tall was near! We were with another, and opened / Another sled route...»
«Just like a young plant sprout / The neck is high and free. / Who'll tell the name, who — years, / Who — place, who — century? The curve of not bright lips / Is capricious and wan, / But blinding is the terraced / Forehead of Beethoven. Clean to endearment / Is the molten ova...»