A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

I

Above the city night is soaring, till

each sound grows softer, duller every chord.
And you, my soul, are keeping silence still,
have mercy for the souls of marble, Lord.

And to this speech my soul did answer give

(as though a harp was singing in the skies):
«Why was I ever made to come and live
within this hum an frame, which I despise?

I hastened towards a glory new and rich,

leaving my home; I must have been insane,
for me this earth is now a ball, to which
the prisoner is fastened with a chain.

And, oh, this love, how I have grown to hate

this illness, of which none on earth are free,
which ever darkens with its shade the fate
of worlds so wondrous, although strange to me.

And if there is one thing that keeps me sealed

to shining planets and to days of old,
that thing is grief, my only trusted shield,
that thing is sorrow, full of scorn, and cold».

II

The clouds were covered with a greenish rust,
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.