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.
«With a cane he feels his way, / blind man on a random walk, / carefully he plants a foot / and mumbles something to himself. / In the whiteness of his eyes / a universe reflected back: / a house, a field, a fence, a cow, / patches of a pale blue sky — / everything that he can't see»
«for Sergei Krechetov A thin howl from the dogs on guard. / Tonight still camped in the same place, / no-good vagabond orphans, we are / warming our hands at the bonfire. A sullen look beneath the brows / from empty nights of far-fetched sleep. / The smoke is full of ruby floaters / whi...»
«There was a house here. They recently dismantled / the upstairs for firewood, leaving just the rough / lower stonework structure. I go there / often of an evening to relax. The open sky / and green trees in the little courtyard / rise up so fresh from all that's fallen, / and there's the...»
«If you have eyes — through day you'll see a night / the rays from that inflaming disk won't reach. / A pair of swallows fighting to escape / flap at the window, where they feebly cheep. But that transparent yet unyielding sheet / was never cut by wings, however sharp; / no darting that ...»