Climb atop of the loftiest mountain,
gaze about from the peak where you stand
toward the sheen of the sunset in autumn,
and the sweep of the far land.
There is soundless music around you,
contemplation and stillness are deep.
It is evening. Mountain ranges
darken, waiting for quiet and sleep.
[1960s]
653. Марина Цветаева(1892–1941). «Черная, как зрачок, как зрачок сосущая…»
Black, like the pupil of an eye, like the pupil, sucking
light — I love you, vigilant night.
Give me voice to sing of you, oh original mother
of songs, holding the reins of four winds in your palm.
Calling you, glorifying you, I am only
a sea-shell, where the sound of the ocean has not yet been stilled.
Night! I've already looked long enough into the pupils
of man! Now reduce me to ashes, oh black sun, — night!
[1960s]
654. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Знаю, умру на заре! На которой из двух…»
I know I will die at dawn, or at sunset — which of the two,
at which of the two — this cannot be foreordained!
Oh, if it only could be that my torch would be dimmed
both at sunset and sunrise, together, at once!
Dancing I walked over Earth! — the sky's own daughter!
Full of roses, my apron! Never a broken twig!
I will die at sunset or dawn! God won't send
the night hawk for my soul — the soul of a swan!
Moving the unkissed crucifix gently aside with my hand,
I will rush toward the generous sky for the ultimate greeting.
A slit of the dawn — and a slit of my smile in reply…
… In the hiccough of death, a poet still, — I!
[1960s]
655. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «На кортике своем: Марина…»
On your dirk you etched «Marina»
when rising for the strife.
I was the first and only one
in all your splendid life.
I see the army boxcar hell,
that night, your radiant face…
Your curl I scattered to the winds,
your patch I laid in a secret place…
[1960s]
656. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Кто уцелел — умрет, кто мертв — воспрянет…»
Не who survived will die, who died — will rise,
and when recalling olden days, a son
will ask «Where were you?» — like a roll of thunder,
so will answer thunder, «On the Don».
«What did you do?» — «We merely suffered tortures,
then we grew weary and lay down to sleep».
And pensively the sons, opposite «Duty»
will enter «Don» into the book they keep.
[1960s]
657. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Идет по луговинам лития…»
Above the meadows rings a requiem mass.
The secret book of Russia's Genesis
where all Earth's fates are hidden has been read
right to its end and has been tightly closed.
And round and round the steppe winds rove and scour
«Russia! Oh martyr! Rest in peace!»
[1960s]
658. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Если душа родилась крылатой…»
If a soul is born with wings —
what does it care about earthly things!
About Genghis-khan and about his Horde!
I've but two enemies in this world,
twins who have ever together stood:
the hungry ones' hunger, the fed ones' food.
[1960s]
659. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Белье на речке полощу…»
I wash my laundry in the brook,
I grow two flowers in my nook.
I cross my heart when church bells call,
I fast when there's no food at all.
As soft as silk — my soul, my hair.
My reputation must be fair.
To do my duty is my belief.
But oh, I love you — wolf and thief!
[1960s]
660. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Ты дал нам мужества…»
You gave us courage
a hundredfold —
let the worlds turn —
we will keep our hold;
and ribs so strong
they'll stand all pain
and remember the Kingdom
even when slain;
You lifted Your likeness
to the sky
since Your faith in Your likeness
wouldn't die.
They give us breath
and give us sweat
enough to bear
Your bounty yet!
[1960s]
661. Владислав Ходасевич(1886–1939). Музыка[309]
All night a snow-storm raged, but day broke calm and clear.
A Sunday laziness pervades my body still,
the Sunday service in the nearby church
is not yet over. As I step outside
into my yard, how small things are: the house,
the smoke that curls above the roof! The rose —
— and-silver of the frosty air — it lifts
its pillars over houses towards the sky's
high cupola, like wings of giant angels.
Sergei Ivanych, my fat neighbour, too,
all of a sudden seems so very small.
In high felt boots and lumber-jacket. Firewood
is scattered all around him in the snow.
As with both hands, and obviously straining,
he lifts his heavy ax above his head,
and yet the striking of his hits
is not too loud: the sky, the snow, the cold
absorbs the sound … «A happy Sunday, neighbour».
Says, «Ah, greetings». So I too set out
my firewood in my yard. He hits, I hit! But soon
I tire of chopping and 1 straighten up
and say to him: «Hold on a minute, now,
— I hear some music?» Sergei Ivanych
stops working, lifts his head a little way
and listens, though he doesn't hear a thing.
«You just imagined it», he tells me. «Really —
just listen hard. To me it sounds quite clear!»
Again he listens. «Could it be perhaps
a military funeral? Yet truly
I still hear nothing». But I don't give up:
«Good gracious, now it's perfectly distinct.
The music seems to come from up above.
Violoncello… and perhaps a h arp …
How beautifully played! Please stop that noise».
And once again my poor Sergei Ivanych
stops splitting wood. He doesn't hear a thing
but doesn't want to interfere with me
and doesn't wish to show me his annoyance.
Amusing: stands there in his yard, afraid
to interrupt the silent symphony.
I finally take a pity and declare:
«It's over». And again we both pick up
our axes. Bang! And bang again! The sky
is still as high above, and as before
feathery angels shine and glimmer in it.
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309
From the collection