A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - [67]

the golden sunset turned into gray,

and i addressed my body: «Now you must

reply to all the soul has had to say!»

And to my speech my body answered so —

a common body, but with blood aflame:

«The meaning of this life I do not know,

though I have heard that «love» can be its name.

(…)

A woman, too, I love…but when 1 kiss

her lowered eyes, it is a strange thing,

and I am drunk, and overcome with bliss,

as in a storm, or drinking from a spring.

And yet for all I want or take today,

for all my dreams, and all my joys and sorrow

as well befits a man, I will repay

with that sure peril which will come tomorrow.»

III

And when the word of God was set aflame

as Big Dipper in the darkness blue,

the body and the soul before me canie,

and asked of me: «Who, questioner, are you?»

I lowered at the impudent my eyes,

and slowly condescended to reply:

«Pray, answer, do you think a dog is wise

that howls when the moon is bright on high?

Then can it be for you to question me,

to whom all time since worlds began to flower,

until the day that they will cease to be

is but the smallest fraction of an hour?

Me, who, like lgdrazil, the tree, does grow

through Universes seven times seven,

whose eyes regard as equal dust below

the meadows of the earth and those of Heaven?

I am who sleeps…

[1930s]

607. Георгий Иванов (1894–1958). Разрозненные строфы

It's yes and no. A star on high

burns bright a hundred thousand years.

The star burns bright. The years go by,

and so an era disappears.

There is no joy. The world is still

and sad, and through the icy sting

of the ethereal spaces, spring,

carrying roses in her hand,

flies to the sad and silent land.

24 June 1961

608. Георгий Иванов (1894–1958). «Меня влечет обратно в край Гафиза…»

The land of Hafiz calls me back, to rove

where my Gulnara's gaze shone green and bright,

and tentwise over her and me above

was spread the sapphire chasuble of night.

And memory, deprived of all these things,

looks everywhere for landmarks of that vale

where waits the lute, forsaken, and where sings

to ageless rose, an ageless nightingale.

[1960s]

609. Георгий Иванов (1894–1958). «Оттого и томит меня шорох травы…»

I am filled with a sadness by whispering grass —

it will wither, and roses will die and decay,

and your own precious body will also, alas,

be changed into flowers, and turned into clay.

All memory of us will vanish. And then

skilled fingers will fashion a beautiful thing,

a pitcher of clay, which will live once again

and be filled to its wide golden throat at spring.

And someone, perhaps, by the well where they meet

embracing each other, with sunset aglow,

will drop that dear clay, which will slip to her feet

and ring as it breaks into fragments below.

[1960s]

610. Лазарь Кельберин (1907–1975). «Когда пятнистая луна…»

At times when the spotted moon

with torn and ragged clouds is strewn;

at times when in the city stream

the isle of dead its last does dream,

and every leaf on every tree

is full of spring impurity,

— then, hiding in the twilight thick,

a man will make his step more quick,

and hasten from that road and past

where crosses come to life and stare,

and on one's breath a shadow cast

from rocky height that rise up there…

— There by the cemetery wall,

you stood with me, — do you recall?

And fresher than a mountain stream

the April kiss to us did seem.

20 May [1930s]

611. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Ангелу-хранителю [272]

From my childhood, you were always near me—

in a woman's tender first embrace,

in the floor that bore my infant footsteps,

in the first warm sunlight on my face.

After that, you always walked beside me,

gave me Paris in the month of May,

Andalusian gardens, Roman sunrise,

— speaking Russian all along my way.

Then, I thought — not knowing you were with me —

that it was myself I used to hear;

there was too much noise and too much gladness

drowning out all else in my young ear.

It is only now, when all is quiet,

that I have been able to divine

finally, the voice — in all the stillness —

which I long ago mistook for mine.

Now I know: if ever I was worthy

in this life, from very early youth;

if at any time my earthly falsehood

had in any way resembled truth;

if I kissed a woman without wounding,

felt a flower, and it never died,

— it was all because you leaned to touch me,

all because you never left my side.

And of all the things you did, the wisest

was that all day long till night would fall

you were always able to protect me

from myself, most dangerous of all.

March 1960

612. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). В лесу [273]

Hot as a bonfire is the summer noon,

but in this wood relief awaits you still,

the morning freshness will not leave it soon,

and it is all suffused with early chill.

Stay for a while. Sit in the nut-grove bower

upon this hidden moss-grown stump, and hear,

while drinking in the languor of the hour,

the wondrous tale unfolding for your ear.

A leaf is wafted to the mossy ground;

fragrant, the little mushrooms upward reach;

a sigh, a rustle, whisperings… the sound,

insatiable, of creation's speech.

28 Feb. 1961

613. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Всевышнему [274]

By the starry sky and my own soul

You proclaim that You indeed exist.