ca. 20 Aug. [1930] 630. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «За окном морозная луна…» Out-of-doors — the murky winter light, frosty moon, and stillness of the night. Hut your window has been covered long with a screen, reliable and strong. Out-of-doors, above the house and tower fearful is the moon this chosen hour. Yet you sleep, the moon you do not heed: you are dreaming other dreams indeed. Out-of doors, beneath the moonlight glow, stubborn guard, I wander to and fro. But it is not joys of love that fill your illusions in the midnight still. [1930] 631. Ирина Одоевцева (1895–1990). «Скользит слеза из-под усталых век…»[288] From tired lid, a tear crawls down my cheek. Coins jangle on the church collection tray. No matter what we pray for, what we seek, it's always for a miracle we pray. That two times two make five instead of four, and straw would turn into a rose in bloom, that I be home, in my own house, once more, though there is no such thing as house or home. That from the churchyard mound where grasses sway you suddenly step out, alive and gay. [1970s] 632. Валерий Перелешин (1913–1992). Неизбежное[289] Like some strange blessing that descends upon us, our kiss is full of fire and passion swift. And yet I know: a future day is coming when I will have to choose your wedding gift. So let it be: some shaken thrones will tumble, and mighty cities fall, and forest burn. Laws that are ironclad were once established, — once and for all they will remain stern. I’ve long outgrown all manner of partitions, of language, and of blood, and even race, and all those other age-old walls and fences with which a man surrounds his private place. Even today, I hate that coming hour when, speaking softly, you will say, «My dear! A temporary harbor may be lovely, but now it's time the ship should homeward steer. My destiny is clear, — you will explain, — I'm but a door where generations stand yet to be born, of small and slant-eyed people with yellow skin — as ever in my land». And you will leave forever, disappearing behind blank walls which I deny in vain, — in cold betrayal, though without betraying — into the cruel truth of your domain. No races, castes, or creeds… Wide as the sea, like that same sea, I will remain alone, wearily mirror someone else's dawns, and, longing for the East, complain and groan. Alone and free…But truly, what of that: I'm quite prepared, forsaking all desires, an unknown passerby, to be the last to warm my hands at other people's fires. 23 Jan. 1973 633. A.H. Плещеев (1825–1893). «Был у Христа младенца сад». Легенда[290] The Christ Child had a garden once, and many grew the roses there. He gave them water twice a day, so he could have a wreath to wear. And when the roses came to bloom, he called the children in, to share, bach took a flower for himself, and soon they left the garden bare. «How will you make yourself a wreath? There's not a rose on any bed!» «You have forgotten that the thorns are left for me», the Christ Child said. And so they took the thorns and laid a prickly wreath upon Him now, and scarlet were the drops of blood, instead of roses, on His brow. 1948 634. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Закрой плотнее дверь, глаза закрой…»[291] Close tighter every door and close your eyes, forget that you are living, think not then, and let your blindness guard you from the skies and deafness — from the noise of earthly men. Know not of the beginning and the end — and a new world before you will arise! So in his coffin does a dead man send a smile to visions hidden from our eyes. 29 June [1930] 635. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «За ночами проходят дни…» Days are passing after the nights putting out — what care they? — the lights. Dream on dream float onward and on, all alike and black every one. Ever lower the sky does grow. God, it's death approaching, I know. God, I know it's you who led me on poverty's path ahead, turned off near me all the lights of the dreams the days and the nights, so that I, in the dark around, on the empty, ice-covered ground, being sentenced, like all, to die, found nothing of which to cry. вернуться Poem not found in a collection of this poet; presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper. вернуться From the collection Южный дом, Munich, 1968. вернуться A.N. Pleshcheev's poem was published with notation «С английского». вернуться From the collection Закат, Paris, 1931. |
