For three days now I’ve spoken with no one...
My thoughts are greedy and malicious.
My back hurts. Everywhere I look,
I see only sky-blue patches.
The church bell was droning. It stopped.
I am alone with myself.
Silk of scarlet creaks and bends
Beneath the clumsy needle.
A seal lies over all phenomena.
It is as though they are fused, one to another.
Having taken one in, I try to divine
The other behind it — that which is hidden.
And this silk seems Fire to me.
And now no longer Fire, but Blood.
And blood is but a sign of that which we
Call, in our poor language, Love.
Love is but a sound… At this late hour,
What comes next I can’t reveal.
No, not fire, nor blood, but only satin
Creaks beneath the timid needle.
Уж третий день ни с кем не говорю...
А мысли — жадные и злые.
Болит спина; куда ни посмотрю —
Повсюду пятна голубые.
Церковный колокол гудел; умолк;
Я всё наедине с собою.
Скрипит и гнется жарко-алый шелк
Под неумелою иглою.
На всех явлениях лежит печать.
Одно с другим как будто слито.
Приняв одно — стараюсь угадать
За ним другое, — то, что скрыто.
И этот шелк мне кажется — Огнем.
И вот уж не огнем — а Кровью.
А кровь — лишь знак того, что мы зовем
На бедном языке — Любовью.
Любовь — лишь звук... Но в этот поздний час
Того, что дальше, — не открою.
Нет, не огонь, не кровь... а лишь атлас
Скрипит под робкою иглою.
«(for S. Ephron) 2 I shall lift my arms / my empty hands / through the black window / and fling myself / down the midnight clanging / of the clock tower / home. I would go home / like this: head down / from the noisy tower. Home, / not against the cobblestoned square / but into ...»
«There is no name for thee! / ’Tis beyond all mortal cunning / To reveal what charm is thine. There is no lyre for thee! / What can song do? 'tis false witness / Come too late with news of thee. If we could only hear / What the heart says, what a power / Would be in its hymn to thee! ...»
«You were before me, / Standing in silence; / Your face was downcast / And deep in thought. / It made me think of / The past we loved so. / That was the last time / It saw this world here. / Away you vanished, / A silent angel. / Today your grave is / Quiet as heaven. / There ...»
«And have you heard the singer in the night? / His song of love, his song of love despairing? / His plaintive pipe, his lonely vigil sharing? / In silent fields, before the morning light, / Have heard him there? And have you met him in the darkling wood? / The singer from the grave, alone,...»