Зимородок | страница 49

(from Requiem)

Madness has now spread his wing

And half my soul is in its shadow.

He pours me fiery wine to drink,

He beckons me to his dark meadow.

I understand I must surrender,

That victory belongs to him;

As my own raving fills my hearing —

A stranger’s voice, confused and dim.

I know that pleading would be wasted,

It’s useless to implore and weep.

All that I cling to will be taken,

There’s nothing that is mine to keep.

Not the remembrance of my son,

His gaze engulfed in horror, frozen;

Nor the arrival of the storm,

Nor the brief meeting in the prison,

Nor the dear hands, cool to the touch,

Nor the lime trees astir with birds,

Nor the ethereal, far away

Sound of the last consoling words.

Weep not for me, Mother,

Seeing me in the coffin.

(from Requiem)

The choir of angels praised the hour of glory,

The firmament became a molten sea.

He asked His Father: «Why did you forsake me?»,

Then, to His Mother: «Oh, weep not for me.»

Magdalene collapsed, convulsed with weeping;

The beloved disciple stood frozen, dazed.

Yet to where the Mother stood in silence

Not a one would dare to lift his gaze.

To E. S. Bulgakova

In the chamber where I’m dwelling

Lived a sorceress before:

When the moon is new her shadow

Yet appears beside the door.

By the threshold stands her shadow,

In its customary place,

As elusively and sternly

It is gazing at my face.

I myself am not of those

Whom another's charms can sway.

I myself… But no, my secrets

I don't freely give away.

A winter thaw is almost bare of beauty —

A soupy mix of sand and salt and sod.

A world made up of icicles and bleakness

Does not reveal the master plan of God.

In order to discern it, gaze intently,

But not at faces, nor the many books

Held close to faces. Not a page within them

Says anything, no matter how you look.

Perhaps the branch that spreads its patterns over

The human mass that hurries through the rain,

May sketch a pictogram in otherworldly language,

Make the preliminary outline plain.

There is one thing I'd like to tell the poets:

Learn to be silent till the poems come.

Maria Petrovykh

Between two languages my words have lost their way.

My mouth is numb to either tongue today.

Hour after hour drop down and are absorbed

By CNN, report after report.

I wanted poetry to glue and hold together