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!
«At my cheerless table / I a-musing sit: / How is one to be / In the world alone? / I, a stalwart youth, / Have no wife, no mate; / I, a stalwart youth, / Want a loving friend. / Want a harrow, share; / Want a kindly hearth; / Want a barn well-stocked, / And a good plo...»
«Pull, my gray one, pull now! / Turning o’er the black clods, / Mother-earth will burnish / White the iron ploughshare. / / Blushing dawn, the fair one, / Lo! on the bright horizon; / From the waking woodland / Comes the sun in glory. / / Joyous rolls the ploughland! / ...»
«When from thy shame, degrading, dark, I drew / Thy fallen spirit out with words of flame; / And thou, with wringing hands, in anguish deep, / Didst curse the sin that compassed thee about; / When thou didst lash thy conscience, late and dull, / With story of thy past, confessing all ...»
«“Well, wife, how are you? How are you, my little ones? / Ah, for a good drink of ale! Such a frost!” — / “Lately the last drop you drained with the constable, / Hast thou forgotten it?” — “Well, nothing lost! / / I shall, poor sinner, get warm soon without it. / But first ...»