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.
«Where the sea — eternal stormer — / Splashes on deserted scaurs, / Where the moon is shining warmer / At the tender nightfall hours, / Where bondmaidens serve in duty / To the reveling mussulman, / There, caressing me, a beauty / Handed me a talisman. And she spoke to me, caressin...»
«I am no more that passioned lover, / Once the world's most marvelous face: / My spring and wondrous golden summer / Forever gone without a trace. / Oh Cupid, god of days of yore! / I was your faithful servant then; / If only to be born once more, / Oh how I'd serve you yet again!»
«Forth went the sower to sow his seeds... As freedom's sower in the wasteland / Before the morning star I went; / From hand immaculate and chastened / Into the grooves of prisonment / Flinging the vital seed I wandered — / But it was time and toiling squandered, / Benevolent designs mi...»
«Where is our rose, friends? / Tell if ye may! / Faded the rose, friends, / The Dawn-child of Day. / Ah, do not say, / Such is life’s fleetness! / No, rather say, / I mourn thee, rose, — farewell! / Now to the lily-bell / Flit we away.»