for Sergei Krechetov
A thin howl from the dogs on guard.
Tonight still camped in the same place,
no-good vagabond orphans, we are
warming our hands at the bonfire.
A sullen look beneath the brows
from empty nights of far-fetched sleep.
The smoke is full of ruby floaters
whirled from flames that whistle and crack.
The waste says nothing. Silent, barbed,
a distant wind pursues the dust;
we sing with an evil dreariness
that's chafing at our curling lips...
A thin howl from the dogs on guard.
Сергею Кречетову
Чуть воют псы сторожевые.
Сегодня там же, где вчера,
Кочевий скудных дети злые,
Мы руки греем у костра.
И дико смотрит исподлобья
Пустых ночей глухая сонь.
В дыму рубиновые хлопья,
Свистя, гремя, кружит огонь.
Молчит пустыня. Вдаль без звука
Колючий ветер гонит прах, —
И наших песен злая скука
Язвя кривится на губах…
Чуть воют псы сторожевые.
«Millions are you – and hosts, yea hosts, are we, / And we shall fight if war you want, take heed. / Yes, we are Scythians – leafs of the Asian tree, / Our slanted eyes are bright aglow with greed. Ages for you, for us the briefest space, / We raised the shield up as your humble lieges /...»
«How the world does change! And I change just the same! / I go by but one name, / Yet not mine, but ours, is the name I'm given. / We are many. Living / Am I. So my blood might not grow cold, I've died / More — far more deaths than one. / How many dead bodies I have cast aside / From ...»
«Florence was my stepmother, / But I came to rest in Ravenna, / Passer-by, speak not of betrayal, / Let death seal such events. Above my white-washed tomb / A pigeon coos, sweet bird, / I dream only of my city, / To her alone keep my word. Songs played with a broken lute / Sound diffe...»
«Guardian angel was watching, / In my room where fire glowed. / He kept eye over the lodging, / Where, in ailment, I abode. Driven frail by the sickness, / From my fellows far away, / I would dream, and in sequence / Before me the visions lay. I could see myself headed / From my birth...»