Expecting concerns unfamiliar,
But ready to take them in,
I came back as a new civilian
In my combat boots from Berlin.
I looked about me:
The snow-covered banks.
White clouds in spacious skies.
And women folding to their breasts
Bars of milk frozen in ice.
They tottered along
All afraid of sliding,
Their headscarves low.
I heard the sound of sledges grinding
On icy snow.
Everywhere was light — clear
and glaring —
And the snow — oh, so white!
There I found my post-war bearings
My forgotten life.
The dust has been washed,
The dirt has been scraped
And the war is over.
For a rainy day, I have nothing saved
All that’s mine is on me.
I’m testing myself in my new domain,
I’m now in control
Of chopping wood and taking pails
To the ice hole.
The pot with potatoes is blowing steam
My dinner is all set.
And ration cards have been redeemed
With sodden bread.
And my field overcoat is mended,
Not a single speck.
The children look at my shiny medals
With respect.
My loud clanging
With fire irons
As I’m raking ashes
Echoes for them
Like the bugles’ blare
And the heavy artillery crashes.
But for me the dim light of dawning
And the drifting snow at the door
Feel like complete withdrawing
From the years of war.
The wag-on-the-wall is counting
Sinking in its drowsy lull;
My boots from that foreign country
Are standing against the wall.
В ожидании дел невиданных
из чужой страны
в сапогах, под Берлином выданных,
я пришел с войны.
Огляделся.
Над белым бережком
бегут облака.
Горожанки проносят бережно
куски молока.
И скользят,
на глаза на самые
натянув платок.
И скрежещут полозья санные,
и звенит ледок.
Очень белое все
и светлое —
ах, как снег слепит!
Начинаю житье оседлое -
позабытый быт.
Пыль очищена,
грязь соскоблена —
и конец войне.
Ничего у меня не скоплено,
все мое — на мне.
Я себя в этом мире пробую,
я вхожу в права —
то с ведерком стою над прорубью,
то колю дрова.
Растолку картофель отваренный —
и обед готов.
Скудно карточки отоварены
хлебом тех годов.
Но шинелка на мне починена,
нигде ни пятна.
Ребятишки глядят почтительно
на мои ордена.
И пока я гремлю,
орудуя
кочергой в печи,
все им чудится:
бьют орудия,
трубят трубачи.
Но снежинок ночных кружение,
заоконный свет —
словно полное отрешение
от прошедших лет.
Ходят ходики полусонные,
и стоят у стены
сапоги мои, привезенные
из чужой страны.
«The eyes beg helplessly and dearly / For mercy. Can I ease their pain / As someone is uttering near me / His short and resounding name? I cross the field along the trail, / Where silver timber logs are piled. / Down here, the gentle gusts prevail / As in the springtime, fresh and wild. ...»
«A perfectly ripened trill, / The cackling of crushed ice, / Night, frosting a leaf, / A duel between nightingales. A sweet pea-vine grown wild, / God's tears upon a peapod, / Figaro from flutes and conductors' stands / Crashing down like hail on a flower bed. The crucial discovery of n...»
«I’d like to live with You / In a small town, / Where there are eternal twilights / And eternal bells. / And in a small village inn — / The faint chime / Of ancient clocks — like droplets of time. / And sometimes, in the evenings, from some garret — / A flute, / And the flau...»
«Already now the weary day / Has through the purple waves descended; / The cooling shades have fast extended; / The azure arch of heaven grows gray! / And solemn Night with peaceful pinions / Comas winging through her vast dominions, / And Hesper with his glittering star / Is hera...»