Brightly the hooves clatter...
What is it, by the bridge?
All erased, all is forgotten,
In the secret of thoughts, a void...
I only listen to the hooves,
to the din and cries by the bridge.
It starts running stoutly, huddling,
The multilegged It.
Entrancing — and boring.
Good — and it matters not.
And I follow, watch how stoutly
The formidable It rushes on.
It rolls and clamours,
Chomping and chewing,
Washing off, eroding everything.
What has my soul lived on.
The soul enters a stranger’s body
Pours in — and dies.
The ringing hooves are greedy,
It is savage, loud and dark.
There — revels melded with blood,
Body weaved into body...
All is broken, all forgotten,
Drink the new wine!
The ringing hooves are greedy,
Whatever happens — matters not.
Ярко цокают копыта...
Что там видно, у моста?
Всё затерто, всё забыто,
В тайне мыслей пустота...
Только слушаю копыта,
Шум да крики у моста.
Побежало тесно, тучно
Многоногое Оно.
Упоительно — и скучно.
Хорошо — и всё равно.
И слежу, гляжу, как тучно
Мчится грозное Оно.
Покатилось, зашумело,
Раскусило удила,
Всё размыло, всё разъело,
Чем душа моя жила.
И душа в чужое тело
Пролилась — и умерла.
Жадны звонкие копыта,
Шумно, дико и темно,
Там — веселье с кровью слито,
Тело в тело вплетено...
Всё разбито, всё забыто,
Пейте новое вино!
Жадны звонкие копыта,
Будь, что будет — всё равно!
«There are twins. For the earthborn / they are gods, Death and Sleep, / like brother and sister wondrously akin, / Death's the gloomier, Sleep is gentler. But there are two more twins: / there are no finer twins in the world, / and there's no fascination more fearsome / than he who's sur...»
«The telephone rang. / “Hello! Who’s there?” / “The Polar Bear.” / “What do you want?” / “I’m calling for the Elephant.” / “What does he want?” / “He wants a little Peanut brittle.” / “Peanut brittle!.. / And for whom?” “It’s for his little Elephan...»
«From the cycle LENIN I Lenin has the spirit of an Old Believer, / Intones his decrees like a priest, / And looks to the Pomorian Responses1 / For the source of all our grief. Now the land belongs to the peasants, / The Church is no longer a state serf. / Now a bright new word chimes for...»
«And while above Tsarskoye Selo1 / Akhmatova’s song and tears were pouring, / I, unwinding the skein of the sorceress, / Plodded through the desert like a sleepy corpse2, / There where impossibility lay dying: / An exhausted mummer Determined to break through. / And meanwhile in dark ca...»