[1929] 591. Александр Блок (1880–1921). Эпитафия Фра Филиппо Липпи[266] Here I am resting, Filippo, artist forever immortal, the wonderful charm of my paint brush is on everyone's lips into the paints I was able to breathe with my fingers a soul, souls of the pious I could shake with the voice of the Lord. Even Nature herself, looking at what I created had to admit that I was artisan equal to her. Here in this marble I was rested by Lawrence Medici, ere I would be turned into lowliest dust. 23 May 1930 592. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Грустно плача и смеясь…»[267] In ringing streams my poems go, weep, laugh and sorrow, quickly bound before you, on, and every one weaves living strings, as on they flow and do not know their banks around. But through the crystals running by you are as ever far from me… The crystals sing along and cry… How can I make your traits, that I may have you come to visit me from where en chanted countries lie? [1960s] 593. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Из ничего — фонтаном синим…» From nowhere, like a fountain blue a light flashed on. We turn our heads up, I and you, and it is gone, above the blackness yonder, throwing a golden mop, and here — one more, in spirals going, a ball, a top, green, yellow, red and blue again — all night aglow… And, having wakened it in vain, they go. [1960s] 594. Андрей Блох(Russian emigre poet)[268] Far from the highways stretching round a small forgotten town is found. Its park is fresh, its church is old, its sleep starts early, one is told. A fountain and a tree are there right in the middle of the square, where often do a pig and kid graze till the setting sun is hid. And when at times a motor car comes through the swelter from afar, raising the dust, and hurries on, and, like a soul that's doomed, is gone, — all watch with sorrow for a spell the stranger rushing straight to hell. And later pray, when all is still, for peace for him whose soul is ill. [1930s] 595. Андрей Блох(Russian emigre poet) I used to know and have forgotten lists of ancient names and numbers half erased. This world — who leads it in the dusky mists, that some are lowered and the others raised? And why have people suffered through the days, and blindly sought, in vain, a better share? Did hidden hands direct them on their ways? Or was it chance that tossed them here and there? And if it was that someone wished to send the sound of mortal agonies to stand, when will it be that He will put an end to all, rem oving the relentless hand? [1930s] 596. Андрей Блох(Russian emigre poet) Poems are songs of a soul in its flight — listen to them, passerby, in the night. Poems are sparks of a soul that s aflame, catch them, for heaven and they are the same. Poems are tears of a soul that's a-smart — take them, extinguish the fire of your heart. Poems are secrets a soul has in store, — Know them, rise up to them, sin nevermore. [1930s] 597. Иван Бунин (1870–1953). «Она молчит, она теперь спокойна…» She doesn't talk, and she is calm once more, but joy will not return to her again: the day dam p earth was thrown into his grave — that day joy took leave of her for good. She doesn't talk — and now her very soul is empty, like a shrine above a grave, where day and night burns an eternal flame lighted above the silent sepulchre. [1960s] 598 Мария Визи. «В одном моем привычном сне…» In one of my familiar dreams there is a place that is so strange, a stillness, where the sunlight beams upon a peaceful mountain range. Green stands a peak, and others crowd as far away as eye can see, while in the sky a silver cloud patterns its fragile filigree. And there upon the slope I stand, but shall I triumph or deplore that in this meditative land I do not need you any more? 1957 599. Мария Визи. «Вот бредем пустым суходолом…» We roam a waterless valley — but are we asleep or awake? The wind stirs the treetops above us with its ragged hem in its wake. Here once a stream was running, but its source has long been dry. Only the sting of the half-moon and desert's fathomless sigh. From grandfathers' fairytales — there once was a source, we know. But we can't recall, half-dreaming, when? and where did it flow? We are lost. We are searching for landmarks. Our hearts in their last despair are poorer than starving beggars that stand in the city square. вернуться Blok supplemented the published poem with a note: «Эпитафия сочинена Полицианом и вырезана на могильной плите в Сполотском соборе по повелению Лаврентия Великолепного». Fra Filippo Lippi (са. 1406–1469) was an Italian painter of the early Renaissance. вернуться Variant in the fifth line of the second stanza in the manuscript: «could have you come to visit me». вернуться Андрей Блох (ок. 1896 — после 1930) Данные о поэте и переводчике крайне скудны: известно, что в начале 20-х годов он служил во французском Иностранном легионе; печатался во множестве периодических изданий (преимущественно выходивших в Латвии на русском языке между 1922 и 1930 годами). Автор двух поэтических сборников — «Стихотворения» (1927) и «Поэмы и стихи» (1929); оба изданы в Париже. |
