A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

In ringing streams my poems go,
weep, laugh and sorrow, quickly bound
before you, on,
and every one
weaves living strings, as on they flow
and do not know their banks around.

But through the crystals running by

you are as ever far from me…
The crystals sing along and cry…
How can I make your traits, that I
may have you come to visit me
from where en chanted countries lie?

[1960s]

593. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Из ничего — фонтаном синим…»

From nowhere, like a fountain blue
a light flashed on.
We turn our heads up, I and you,
and it is gone,

above the blackness yonder, throwing

a golden mop,
and here — one more, in spirals going,
a ball, a top,

green, yellow, red and blue again —

all night aglow…
And, having wakened it in vain,
they go.

[1960s]

594. Андрей Блох(Russian emigre poet) [268]

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…»