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.
«From "Sibyl" 3. Sibyl to the Infant: Child, cling / To my breast: / Birth is a falling into days. From the nowhere cliffs beyond the clouds, / My infant, / How low you fell! / You were spirit, you became dust. Cry, o little one, for them and for us: / Birth is a falling into hours!...»
«In the sweet, Atlantic / Breathing of spring / My curtain's like a butterfly, / Huge, fluttering Like a Hindu widow / To a pyre's golden blaze, / Like a drowsy Naiad / To past-window seas.»
«I smeared the weekday map, in passing, / while splashing paint from a glass; / revealed upon a plate of aspic / the ocean’s angled cheeks at last. / In scales of a tin fish, hidden, / I’ve read the calls of lips yet mute. / Could you / have played a noctu...»
«From rooftops, tears seeped into pipes / and to the river’s arm drew streaks, / while lips, suspended from the skies, / continued sucking on stone teats. The sky, relaxed, could now see clearly: / along the sea's resplendent channel, / the sweating cameleer drove wearily / The Neva’...»