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(1895-1925 / Russia)

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No sorrow, no calls, no tears...(translated from russian)

No sorrow, no calls, no tears.
Now it's gone, white foam from apple-tree.
Faded, seized by tarnished golden flares,
I will not feel youthful. Never me.

Now you slow down, that's the matter,
You, my heart, that suffered a cold jet.
And the land of calico birch pattern
Hardly tempts my feet to walk o'er that.

Hobo spirit! You're so rare, rare,
Waking flame in mouth. It's now tense.
Oh, my freshness, that I couldn't spare.
Brawling eyes and overflowing sence!

I've become too greedy for desires.
Life of mine? Perhaps, it was a dream?
Me, alone, in early vernal hours
Riding a pink horse, as it cood seem.

We are mortal. In this world none's ever.
Copper leaves are floating. Let them fly.
Be you blest, you beautiful forever
That has come to blossom and to die.


Íå æàëåþ, íå çîâó, íå ïëà÷ó,
Âñå ïðîéä¸ò, êàê ñ áåëûõ ÿáëîíü äûì.
Óâÿäàíüÿ çîëîòîì îõâà÷åííûé,
ß íå áóäó áîëüøå ìîëîäûì.

Òû òåïåðü íå òàê óæ áóäåøü áèòüñÿ,
Ñåðäöå, òðîíóòîå õîëîäêîì,
È ñòðàíà áåð¸çîâîãî ñèòöà
Íå çàìàíèò øëÿòüñÿ áîñèêîì.

Äóõ áðîäÿæèé! òû âñå ðåæå, ðåæå
Ðàñøåâåëèâàåøü ïëàìåíü óñò.
Î, ìîÿ óòðà÷åííàÿ ñâåæåñòü,
Áóéñòâî ãëàç è ïîëîâîäüå ÷óâñòâ!

ß òåïåðü ñêóïåå ñòàë â æåëàíüÿõ,
Æèçíü ìîÿ, èëü òû ïðèñíèëàñü ìíå?
Ñëîâíî ÿ âåñåííåé ãóëêîé ðàíüþ
Ïðîñêàêàë íà ðîçîâîì êîíå.

Âñå ìû, âñå ìû â ýòîì ìèðå òëåííû,
Òèõî ëüåòñÿ ñ êë¸íîâ ëèñòüåâ ìåäü…
Áóäü æå òû âîâåê áëàãîñëîâåííî,
×òî ïðèøëî ïðîöâåñòü è óìåðåòü.

Submitted: Tuesday, September 07, 2010


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