There is this hard,
This shameful.
Almost impossible —
Hard:
It is to lift the eyelashes
And look into the face of a mother,
Whose son was killed.
But one shouldn’t talk about that.
Есть такое трудное,
Такое стыдное.
Почти невозможное —
Такое трудное:
Это — поднять ресницы
И взглянуть в лицо матери,
У которой убили сына.
Но не надо говорить об этом.
«In Germany once lived a censor / of lowly rank and title. / He blotted, struck and cancelled / and knew no other no other calling. He sniffed out harmful diction / and smeared it with Indian ink. / He guarded minds from infection / and his bosses valued his work. On a winter day in for...»
«Here sways a tree: — Farewell! — / There a house calls out: — Stranger, stay! — / The road leads forth: — Mount me, walk / on my weathered skin, stomp me with your heel, / Don't trust these houses calling you to settle down. / Trust in the tree and trust in me. / ...»
«The forties, fateful, / warring, frontline, / with funeral notices, / clattering trains. / The hum of the rails. / All is cold, high and barren. / Their houses have burned — / they’re heading east. / That’s me at the station / in my scruffy wool cap. / The star’s not stan...»
«How bare the countryside! What dearth / How stark the hamlets’ desolation... / Long-suffering country of my birth, / poor homeland of the Russian nation. Never will the stranger’s gaze / look deeper to perceive or guess / what hidden light there is that plays / and shimmers through...»