Only two things have never their end –
The heavens’ blue and the Creator’s mercy.
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Although this land is not my own,
and the waters that are so coldthe sand as whiteas old bones, the pine treesstrangely red where the sun comes down.I cannot say if it is our love,or the day, that is ending.
Why is this age worse than earlier ages?
have we not fingered the foulest woundsand left them unhealed by our hands?In the west the falling light still glows,and the clustered housetops glitter in the sun,but here Death is already chalking the doors with crosses,and calling the ravens, and the ravens are flying in.
Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
comes back again in every road and tree –that winter night of diamantine splendour.Steam is pouring out of yellow stables,the Moika river’s sinking under snow,the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables,and where we are heading – I don’t know.There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art…..Whose soul can compare with…
Along the hard crust of deep snows,
So gentle and quiet – we bothAre walking, in silence half-lost.And sweeter than all songs, sung ever,Are this dream, becoming the truth,Entwined twigs’ a-nodding with favor,The light ring of your silver spurs…
We don’t know how to say good-bye
Already the sun is going down.You’re moody, I am your shadow.Let’s step inside a church and watchbaptisms, marriages, masses for the dead.Why are we different from the rest?Outdoors again, each of us turns his head.Or else, let’s sit in the graveyardOn the trampled snow, sighing to each other.That stick in your hand is tracing mansionsIn…
I have enough treasures from the past
You know as well as I . . . malevolent memorywon’t let go of half of them:a modest church, with its gold cupolaslightly askew; a harsh chorusof crows; the whistle of a train;a birch tree haggard in a fieldas if it had just been sprung from jail;a secret midnight conclaveof monumental Bible-oaks;and a tiny rowboat…