To V. Zlobin
I roar — a dying lion...
D’ you see all this, my God!
Between machine’s teeth iron,
My flesh is being deformed.
I’ll bear pains my own…
But would I — all, I feel?
All that in systems goes on,
Between the clogs of wheels?
В. Злобину
Кричу — и крик звериный…
Суди меня Господь!
Меж зубьями машины
Моя скрежещет плоть.
Своё — стерплю в гордыне…
Но все? Но если все?
Терпеть, что все в машине?
В зубчатом колесе?
«The Lethe’s wind is blowing over me / With anodyne and slow beatitude. / “Where should I with such a muteness be, / When the perfection is so blind and rude.” Being exhausted, deathly granite grows / Silent and cold over the darkling water / “It’s time, my friend. The city sadl...»
«A chart of living daubed I, quickly, / the paint from jam jar did I splatter; / I fingered plate of aspic, sickly / with curving prows through ocean water. / In scale of pickled herringed letter — / a proclamation from new lips. / And you / a nocturne could / ...»
«I blurred at once the map of humdrum, / by splashing colours like a potion; / I showed upon the dish of jelly / the slanted cheekbones of the ocean. Upon the scales of metal fishes / I read the new lips’ attitude. / But could you / now / ...»
«I splattered the pattern of weekdays at once / with color splashed out from a glass; / I showed you, on a dish of aspic, / the slanting cheekbones of the ocean. / Upon the scales of a tin fish / I read the calls of new lips. / And how about you, / ...»