A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

620. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «He камешком в мозаиках Равенны…» [281]

No pebble in ravenna's sculptured tomb,
nor crimson paint-dab in the Vatican, —
I merely was a wisp of merry spume
upon the ocean's blue and distant span.

But when a sail came toward me, I would swirl

to meet it; I have played with reefs near land,
caressed the body of a sun-tanned girl,
and, tired, dug into the golden sand.

My fleeting course no great event did jar;

for one chance moment was my fate unfurled,
yet I was happier and richer far
than all the tombs and castles of the world.

[1960s]

621. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Высох ключ, струившийся в овраге…» [282]

Dry the source that ran in the ravine.
Hot the noon. But take a look again:
in the hollow stump, some moisture still —
fusty water left there by the rain.

Playing with your twig — be very careful

not ot splash it out around the brink —
even though it's pitifully scanty,
someone still may need it for a drink!

After dawn tomorrow some small creature —

squirrel, hedgehog — may come by this rill
and may drink. You too — who knows what happens? —
yet may taste it in a final thrill.

[1960s]

622. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Прощаться всего трудней, потому…» [283]

It's hardest of all to say goodbye,
it is best to be alone to die.
For no one at all to be near, instead
just an empty room, a chair, a bed,
not to see anyone sadly weep,
not to have any small dog creep
from under your bed to lick your cheek,
or a sun ray come through a crack and peek,
or a butterfly dart in the window So
may it not be spring when I have to go!
May I die in the night! When a single star
may fall… and another… again… How far
easier, maybe, to go away
down such an
utterly
empty
way.

[1960s]

623. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Я растерял их по пути…» [284]

I lost them all along the way,
those words 1 failed to clothe in sound.
Like swallows on a winter day,
never again can they be found.

I didn't show them much concern,

so they departed, taking wing.
And yet perhaps they will return
to others, in some future spring?

[1960s]

624. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). В комнате умершего [285]