A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - [71]

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]

640. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Никогда я так жалок не был…» [296]

Never felt I more to be pitied,

ridiculous, clumsy, weak;

I dreamed I was turning blind,

the sky was a blackened streak.

Oh, weight of unseeing sadness,

remembrance of earthly day!

Invisible voices, crying,

ran past me upon their way.

Oh, death without putrefaction,

insatiable worm of night.

I summoned God to redeem me,

but it was you who replied.

The lower your voice, the softer,

the more the answer grew clear:

«My dear, I hear you, I hear you,

there is no salvation, dear!»

[1930]

641. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Сердце [297]

It all will be as I have always wished:

over my feet the cover will be white

and white will be the ribbon of the wreath

around my forehead, grown cold and dark.

Keeping my earthly, my familiar look,

three long, three not-to-be-forgotten days

alone upon the table I will lie.

Pompous and solemn, the memorial mass

will be performed above me by the priest

and silently around me there will stand

my family, my enemies, my friends,

and those with whom I lived and whom I'd met;

and the transparent pallor of her face

will lend an added beauty to my wife.

It all will be as I have always wished.

And only you will never have a chance,

in your great longing and your last despair,

to touch my hand, my all but living hand,

to touch already my unseeing eyes.

And even into the wide open church

you will not dare to enter with the rest.

But, waiting for me somewhere on the way,

pressing your hand over your pain-stilled mouth,

you will observe my coffin floating past

silently, in the mist, without a trace…

And at that moment the dead heart in me

will suddenly, in mortal pity, shake,

and you will clearly hear the distant beat

— the beat, so long familiar, of my heart.

But people will not hear a sound.

[1930]

642. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). Окончено стихотворенье [298]

At last the poem is completed.

The soul is void, the soul is light.

The hand that holds the pen is shaking

as from a giddiness of flight.

The world of phantom, barely seen,

swaying, recedes into the gloom;

out of the darkness Earth arises

steadfast and ponderous as doom.

As only on a sheet of paper

a mark, unsure and indistinct,

reflects the light which fell from heaven

in smallest drops of drying ink.

And now the heart beats faster, weary,

as if beyond some starry goal

running across the plains of heaven

the body too had chased the soul.

[1960s]

643. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Стихи о звезде [299]

Burn in the foggy whiteness, burn,

burn in the fog of icy skies,

lighting the murky twilight stillness

with your bright body as it flies.

And soaring from the crowded heaven,

enter my crowding prison walls

through the slit window, like a bird,

to visit me when evening falls.

Soaring above decay and coldness,

incomprehensible, though near,

glide, circling from the vaulted ceiling

down to the dusty corners here,

that — even for the briefest moment!

and though I burn my fingers through —

I am allowed, in sweetest torment,

to touch the body that is you.

[1960s]

644. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk…» [300]

Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk,

in which we live so close we gasp for breath

not guessing the beginning or the end,

dreaming of happiness which conquers death.

This indestructible, poor mortal land!

But close your eyes: another lies beyond —

A world in which you are a midnight star

immobile in its speechlessness and bright,

— a world in which I am a limpid pool

whose face reflects your ever-shining light.

Above this world, that other will appear —

that's quite transparent, and quite simply clear.

[1960s]

645. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Как лебедь медленно скользящий…» [301]

A graceful swan that's slowly gliding

upon the mirror of the lake,

a falcon in the clouds abiding —

my dream-invented world is riding

in phantom imagery's wake.

Between its wings, unfurled and gleaming,

I slowly drift, not knowing where,

sweetly and languorously dreaming,

regretting nothing, nor redeeming,

melting in this transparent air.

And this prophetic voice of mine,

voice of my soul in dream's embrace,

above abysmal darkness flying,

is echoed hollowly, and, dying,