Already the sun is going down.
You’re moody, I am your shadow.
Let’s step inside a church and watch
baptisms, 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 graveyard
On the trampled snow, sighing to each other.
That stick in your hand is tracing mansions
In which we shall always be together.
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For Osip Mandelstam
Trees, walls, snow, beneath a glass.Over crystal, on slippery tracks of ice,the painted sleighs and I, together, pass.And over St Peter’s there are poplars, crowsthere’s a pale green dome there that glows,dim in the sun-shrouded dust.The field of heroes lingers in my thought,Kulikovo’s barbarian battleground.The frozen poplars, like glasses for a toast,clash now, more noisily,…
Black and enduring separation
Why weep? Give me your hand,Promise me you will come again.You and I are like highMountains and we can’t move closer.Just send me wordAt midnight sometime through the stars.
I pray to the sunbeam from the window –
Since morning I have been silent,And my heart – is split.The copper on my washstandHas turned green,But the sunbeam plays on itSo charmingly.How innocent it is, and simple,In the evening calm,But to me in this deserted templeIt’s like a golden celebration,And a consolation.
This evening’s light is golden bright,
Though you are many years too late,I still do welcome you to enter.Right next to me why don’t you sitAnd look with happy eyes around.This little notebook has in itThe poems written in my childhood.Forgive me that I’ve lived and mourned,And was not grateful for the sun rays…Forgive me please, forgive me forI have mistaken…
I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .
— Because I have made my loved one drunkwith an astringent sadness.I’ll never forget. He went out, reeling;his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,and followed him as far as the gate.And shouted, choking: ‘I meant it allin fun. Don’t leave me, or I’ll die of pain.’He smiled at me…
If the moon on the skies does not roam,
My dead husband enters the homeTo read the letters of love.He remembers the box, made of oak,With the lock, very secret and odd,And spreads through a floor the strokeOf his feet in the iron bond.He watches the times of the meetingsAnd the signatures’ blurry set.Hasn’t had he sufficiently grievingsAnd pains in this word until that?