"Marina Tsvetaeva. The Best (translated by Ilya Shambat) (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора I decided all things on the way
Imagining your pose: Am I, or am I not, to bring To you a rose? And I was readying a phrase, Forgotten afterward, Alas - And suddenly - no wait! - at once! That self-same house. With many stories, looking bored... I count the windows, here's the porch. Unwittingly, cross on the neck The hands do search. I count the gray steps, that are leading Me to the flame. I ring the bell. Here for thinking. There is no time. I but remember roar of thunder And my two hands, as cold as ice. I call for you. - He is at home, He'll come at once. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- May with my youth the years bear out What's unforgotten, one and all. The paint upon the colored wallpaper I will recall. And glass-beads of the lampshade, and The sound of some strange voices and Port Arthur and the dull clock beating Overhead. The moment, long, in the least measure - Like hour. But steps from afar. And you have entered. Here's the squeaking Of open door. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- And there at once was fascination. He leaned down, simple like a king. And two stars in awe and terror Were glimmering. And squinting them, so huge, you did not |
|
|