A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - страница 84

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and your own precious body will also, alas,

be changed into flowers, and turned into clay.

All memory of us will vanish. And then

skilled fingers will fashion a beautiful thing,

a pitcher of clay, which will live once again

and be filled to its wide golden throat at spring.

And someone, perhaps, by the well where they meet

embracing each other, with sunset aglow,

will drop that dear clay, which will slip to her feet

and ring as it breaks into fragments below.

[1960s]

610. Лазарь Кельберин (1907–1975). «Когда пятнистая луна…»

At times when the spotted moon

with torn and ragged clouds is strewn;

at times when in the city stream

the isle of dead its last does dream,

and every leaf on every tree

is full of spring impurity,

— then, hiding in the twilight thick,

a man will make his step more quick,

and hasten from that road and past

where crosses come to life and stare,

and on one's breath a shadow cast

from rocky height that rise up there…

— There by the cemetery wall,

you stood with me, — do you recall?

And fresher than a mountain stream

the April kiss to us did seem.

20 May [1930s]

611. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Ангелу-хранителю[272]

From my childhood, you were always near me—

in a woman's tender first embrace,

in the floor that bore my infant footsteps,

in the first warm sunlight on my face.

After that, you always walked beside me,

gave me Paris in the month of May,

Andalusian gardens, Roman sunrise,

— speaking Russian all along my way.

Then, I thought — not knowing you were with me —

that it was myself I used to hear;

there was too much noise and too much gladness

drowning out all else in my young ear.

It is only now, when all is quiet,

that I have been able to divine

finally, the voice — in all the stillness —

which I long ago mistook for mine.

Now I know: if ever I was worthy

in this life, from very early youth;

if at any time my earthly falsehood

had in any way resembled truth;

if I kissed a woman without wounding,

felt a flower, and it never died,

— it was all because you leaned to touch me,

all because you never left my side.

And of all the things you did, the wisest

was that all day long till night would fall

you were always able to protect me

from myself, most dangerous of all.

March 1960

612. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). В лесу[273]

Hot as a bonfire is the summer noon,

but in this wood relief awaits you still,

the morning freshness will not leave it soon,

and it is all suffused with early chill.

Stay for a while. Sit in the nut-grove bower

upon this hidden moss-grown stump, and hear,

while drinking in the languor of the hour,

the wondrous tale unfolding for your ear.

A leaf is wafted to the mossy ground;

fragrant, the little mushrooms upward reach;

a sigh, a rustle, whisperings… the sound,

insatiable, of creation's speech.

28 Feb. 1961

613. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Всевышнему[274]

By the starry sky and my own soul

You proclaim that You indeed exist.

As an infant blind from the beginning,

never having known his mother's face,

yet remembers whispering and singing,

hands caressing tenderly and bringing

gentle warmth and never-ending grace,

so do I, not having ever seen You,

know You, feel Your breath from where I stand,

hear Your song, Your whisper understand,

and against all human earthly reason

recognize the warmth that is Your hand.

13 Mar. 1961

614. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Наш мир[275]

Of course, it's fair! Not in the present

the end of which it cannot see

and not in that which it bewails

or does not have the strength to be.

But in the changing succession

of suddenly bedazzled days,

its gift of momentary gladness

the transient kindness of its ways.

So all around us, and forever:

under a dagger's constant aim

people will kiss and gather flowers

and build their houses just the same.

In spite of all the grief of partings,

of all the hands wrung in despair,

of all premeditated falsehood,

it still will be forever fair!

17 July 1965

615. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Звезды[276]

Children are taught in textbooks

that stars are so far away —

I somehow never believed them,

those things they used to say.

I used to love as a child

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