Сочинения Иосифа Бродского. Том IV

Now there’s nothing around to argue
over: no pros or cons.
«Hey, enemy!» the Emperor shouts. «Are you
there?» — There’s no response.

Now it’s pure space, devoid of mountains,

plains, and their bric-a-brac.
«Let’s», says the Emperor, «sing our anthem’s
lyrics and raise the flag».

Up flies the pennant, attended only

by two or three evening bats.
«A victory often makes one lonely»,
the Emperor says, then adds:

«Let’s have a monument, since my stallion,

white as a hyacinth,
is old and looks, as it were, quite alien;
and write on the granite plinth:

«‘Tight was the enemy’s precious anus.

We, though, stood strong and firm.’
The critics might say that we went bananas.
But we’ve got it all on film.

«Lest her sweet mutants still cry, the mother

may sing them the ancient lay.
The future as such has no purpose, other
than pushing down Replay».

At sunset, everything looks quite pretty.

Down goes the temperature.
The world lies motionless, like a treaty
without a signature.

The stars start to twinkle, remote and jolly.

The eye travels rather far.
One feels a little bit melancholy.
But there is one’s cigar.

1995

ANTHEM

Praised be the climate
for putting a limit,
after a fashion,
to time in motion.

Of all prisons

the Four Seasons
has the best diet
and welcomes riot.

Asked for its origin

a climate cites oxygen,
but gives no reasons
for its omnipresence.

Detached like Confucius,

hardly conscious,
it may not love us,
but murmurs, «Always».

Being finite,

we certainly find it
promising and heartwarming,
though it’s a warning.

A climate’s permanence

is caused by the prevalence
of nothingness in its texture
and atmospheric pressure.

Hence, the barometer,

with its Byronic air,
should be, I reckon,
our only icon.

Since the accuracy of mercury

beats that of memory
(which is also mortal),
climate is moral.

When it exhibits

its bad habits,
it blames not parents
but ocean currents.

Or charged with the tedium

and meaninglessness of its idiom,
it won’t seek legal
aid and goes local.

Keen on history,

it’s also well versed in the mystery
of the hereafter
and looks like their author.

What I have in common

with the ancient Roman
is not a Caesar,
but the weather.

Likewise, the main features

I share with the future’s
mutants are those curious
shapes of cumulus.

Praised be the entity

incapable of enmity
and likewise finicky
when it comes to affinity.

Yet if one aspect

of this highly abstract
thing is its gratitude
for finding latitude,

then a rational anthem

sung by one atom
to the rest of matter
should please the latter.

1995

ELEGY