A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Days are passing after the nights
putting out — what care they? — the lights.
Dream on dream float onward and on,
all alike and black every one.
Ever lower the sky does grow.
God, it's death approaching, I know.
God, I know it's you who led
me on poverty's path ahead,
turned off near me all the lights
of the dreams the days and the nights,
so that I, in the dark around,
on the empty, ice-covered ground,
being sentenced, like all, to die,
found nothing of which to cry.

29 June [1930]

636. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Нам снятся сны, но мы не верим им…» [292]

We dream our dreams, but do not know that they
are God’s own warnings, and believe them not.
A last night’s dream, like smoke, will blow away,
today will come — and it will be forgot.

So with this earthly life — when death is nigh,

and on the death-bed frozen falls our hand,
closing the lid of our wondering eye,
we never will recall or understand!

16 Sept. 1930

637. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961).To my wife [293]

I know not how or why, at whose behest,
by what strange powers of the earth or sky,
you share with me my crust of bread, and lie
close to the heart that heats within my breast.

In days that are inspired, as on the day

of death — you are inseparably near.
All else will pass, all else will disappear…
I he constant shining of your eyes will stay.

16 Sept. 1930

638. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Ангел [294]

As slaves are driven from behind
with w hip and shouts that don't abate,
so I am goaded by my blind,
my cruel and relentless fate.

In such a servitude and pain

what boundless strengths one must possess
in order not to go insane
or die from hunger and distress!

But as the day grows ever dimmer

it s pierced — so often! — from the skies
by slender wings that lightly shimmer
and luminous transparent eyes.

I die so slowly, crawling, groping…

Yet as I reach the gate of heaven
I know that he will pull it open
and with his wing will help me in.

[1930]

639. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Два восьмистишия [295]

Don't go away, for I am lost,
stay here, for I am cold;
upon my chest my hands are crossed
that I may not unfold.

I cannot lift my eyes to see,

it's cold, and dark as well.
This cannot be, this cannot be
the bottom of the well…

[1930]

640. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Никогда я так жалок не был…» [296]