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.
«You were given an incomprehensible name. / Yon are oblivion. / Or, more accurately, potassium cyanide Is your name. / Georgy Adamovich Oh, how fastidious you once were, / My friends. / You did not drink vodka, could not abide it. / You preferred Nuit St. Georges. Now our daily bread is...»
«In Petersburg m shall meet again / As if we had buried the sun there. / O. Mandelshtam A quarter century of exile has passed / And it has become absurd to hope / The radiant sky over Nice / Has become our native sky for ever. The peaceful, abundant South, / The murmur of waves, the gol...»
«Should I tell of all the absolute fools. / Who hold the fate of mankind in their hands? Should I tell of all the scoundrels who / Depart into history crowned with wreaths? Should I — hell! / Under the bridges of Paris it s quiet / And why should I c...»
«Unharnessed, the white horse ambles along. / Where are you going, white horse? / The sun shines, an early spring breeze / Rumples the shirts and handkerchiefs in the garden. I who one day took my leave of Russia / (On a night preceeding an arctic dawn) / Did not turn round, nor cross myse...»