And thus, your own life echoes your country's fate
Rattling its heavy chains, dragging the shackles of freedom.
Vyacheslav Leikin
'No, I will not depart, nor cut the branch…'
* * *
No, I will not depart, nor cut the branch,
Nor hope that Rome and Paris are still waiting.
I fear that there I'll feel a bitter love
For all of this that here I relish hating.
I fear I will not manage to forget
The acrid taste of Fatherland's smoky air.
I fear, because to feel a love for this
Is not impossible, but more than I can bear.
Vyacheslav Leikin
'Lately far too many live all out of kilter…'
* * *
Lately far too many live all out of kilter,
Spitting, picking, grabbing where it's not allowed.
In the man-made thickets, the communal Edens,
There are far too many destitute and screaming.
Magic does not charm them, thrillers bore them silly
Jigsaw puzzle pieces do not fit together.
Driven by the devil, they crave revelation:
Serve up all the truth now, from the past and present.
Let the chasms yawn open, bring to life the pictures
Where the knaves pass judgement and the fools enlighten,
Where the whores and robbers, murderers and stoolies
Roam in packs and solo, slavering and baying.
That's the truth stripped naked, filthy, vicious-tempered,
Brewed of dust and ashes, rabid snarls and screeches,
Petty alms for beggars, pitiful repentance,
More debased than vileness, viler than debasement,
With its loathsome tributes, monstrous celebrations,
With each window serving as the new Golgotha.
That's the truth whose venom seeped into the Lethe.
And, forgive me, never was there any other.
Vyacheslav Leikin
'Not this one, not the truth-wit who, inspired…'
Let us honor the madman
Jean-Pierre Beranger
* * *
Not this one, not the truth-wit who, inspired,
Pontificates and makes his careless way
Up to the gallows, who is always trying
To put it to you straight and to your face.
Not this self-swallowing snake, this wingless dodo —
But that one, he who lied and covered up,
Who peered into the chasm and understood
That there, within those depths, is not the past,
But our tomorrow, whose assault is yet to come,
Whose stench is yet to rise up to our nostrils.
Anna Akhmatova
'True tenderness can’t be mistaken…'
* * *
True tenderness can’t be mistaken
For anything. Quietly it stirs.
In vain you envelop caressingly
My shoulders and breast in furs.
In vain you speak to me softly,
Your humble first love confess.
How well do I know your glances
That insatiably rove and press.
