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.
5 Dec. 1967
600. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). «У меня не живут цветы…»[269]
Flowers never live in my house,
but a minute they soothe the eye,
in a couple of days they die;
flowers never live in my house.
Birds either don't live here long,
only ruff their feathers and frown,
and by morning — a ball of down…
Even birds do not live here long.
Only volumes in eight long rows,
silent volumes of many pages,
guard the languorous thought of ages,
like teeth, in eight long rows.
The man who sold them to me,
I recall, was hunch-backed and poor…
…By the graveyard he kept his store,
did the man who sold them to me.
[1930s]
601. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Свиданье[270]
Tonight you will be coming soon,
and I will understand
why all alone beneath the moon
it feels so strange to stand.
Pale, you will check your step, and throw
away your cape and hood,
does not the full moon likewise flow
above the somber wood?
And by the magic of her ways
and by yourself spell-bound,
I will be happy — with my days,
the dark and stillness round.
So in the woods a beast which smells
that spring is coming soon
the rustling of the hours tells
and goes to watch the moon.
And softly to the glen he creeps
to wake the dreams of night,
and with the moon's own movement keeps
his step, that's ever light.