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.
29 June [1930]
636. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Нам снятся сны, но мы не верим им…»[292]
We dream our dreams, but do not know that they
are God’s own warnings, and believe them not.
A last night’s dream, like smoke, will blow away,
today will come — and it will be forgot.
So with this earthly life — when death is nigh,
and on the death-bed frozen falls our hand,
closing the lid of our wondering eye,
we never will recall or understand!
16 Sept. 1930
637. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961).To my wife[293]
I know not how or why, at whose behest,
by what strange powers of the earth or sky,
you share with me my crust of bread, and lie
close to the heart that heats within my breast.
In days that are inspired, as on the day
of death — you are inseparably near.
All else will pass, all else will disappear…
I he constant shining of your eyes will stay.
16 Sept. 1930
638. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Ангел[294]
As slaves are driven from behind
with w hip and shouts that don't abate,
so I am goaded by my blind,
my cruel and relentless fate.
In such a servitude and pain
what boundless strengths one must possess
in order not to go insane
or die from hunger and distress!
But as the day grows ever dimmer
it s pierced — so often! — from the skies
by slender wings that lightly shimmer
and luminous transparent eyes.
I die so slowly, crawling, groping…
Yet as I reach the gate of heaven
I know that he will pull it open
and with his wing will help me in.
[1930]
639. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Два восьмистишия[295]
Don't go away, for I am lost,
stay here, for I am cold;
upon my chest my hands are crossed
that I may not unfold.
I cannot lift my eyes to see,
it's cold, and dark as well.
This cannot be, this cannot be
the bottom of the well…
[1930]
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293
Poem not found in a collection of this poet, presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper.