Wide acres you inherit,
And graveyards populous;
A tameless nomad spirit
Is Beauty’s fate for us.
For us a daily treason,
New camp-grounds every day.
The inexorable prison
We cheat, and break away.
Trust in each shrouded story.
Each far-off marvel’s prize.
The springtime’s emerald glory,
The length and breadth of skies.
Artists, with dreams for horses.
Pasture them all around!
Escape! Sow with new forces.
Then fly the fallow ground.
Hurl from your flooding numbers
Your hordes in hurricanes
Where the low valley slumbers
And slaves are proud of chains.
Trample their paradises,
Attila I Waste anew!
And where your bright star rises,
The steppe will bud for you!
Кочевники Красоты — вы, художники.
*** «Пламенники»
Вам — пращуров деревья
И кладбищ теснота!
Нам вольные кочевья
Судила Красота.
Вседневная измена,
Вседневный новый стан:
Безвыходного плена
Блуждающий обман.
О, верьте далей чуду
И сказке всех завес,
Всех весен изумруду,
Всей широте небес!
Художники, пасите
Грез ваших табуны;
Минуя, всколосите —
И киньте — целины!
И с вашего раздолья
Низриньтесь вихрем орд
На нивы подневолья,
Где раб упрягом горд.
Топчи их рай, Аттила, —
И новью пустоты
Взойдут твои светила,
Твоих степей цветы!
«They're not my kind who left the land / To enemies and plundering. / I do not heed their vulgar praise. / My songs are not for them to sing. But I ever do I grieve for exiles, / Like inmates, like the nearly dead. / Dark is the road you wander, rovers, / As wormwood fills your foreign ...»
«Night. Streetlamp. Street. The chemist's store. / A world in dingy, sleazy light. / Survive a quarter century more, / Nothing will change. Can't leave tonight. You'll die- and start the whole thing over. / The same old story will repeat: / Night. Icy rippling of the river. / Streetlamp...»
«A sail drifts white and on its own / Amid the light blue ocean haze. / What does it seek in distant country? / What made it leave its native bays? The billows play. The winds are whistling / Down at the bending, creaking mast / Oh! This one seeks no happy ending / And does not flee a ha...»
«y noon heat in a dale in Dagestan, / A bullet in my breast, my body lay; / Deep was the wound and steaming even yet, / My blood was dripping drop by drop away. I lay alone upon the valley sands. / Clustered above my head, the cliffs were steep, / Their tawny summits scorched under the sun...»