A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - страница 88

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and scarlet were the drops of blood,

instead of roses, on His brow.

1948

634. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Закрой плотнее дверь, глаза закрой…»[291]

Close tighter every door and close your eyes,

forget that you are living, think not then,

and let your blindness guard you from the skies

and deafness — from the noise of earthly men.

Know not of the beginning and the end —

and a new world before you will arise!

So in his coffin does a dead man send

a smile to visions hidden from our eyes.

29 June [1930]

635. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «За ночами проходят дни…»

Days are passing after the nights

putting out — what care they? — the lights.

Dream on dream float onward and on,

all alike and black every one.

Ever lower the sky does grow.

God, it's death approaching, I know.

God, I know it's you who led

me on poverty's path ahead,

turned off near me all the lights

of the dreams the days and the nights,

so that I, in the dark around,

on the empty, ice-covered ground,

being sentenced, like all, to die,

found nothing of which to cry.

29 June [1930]

636. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Нам снятся сны, но мы не верим им…»[292]

We dream our dreams, but do not know that they

are God’s own warnings, and believe them not.

A last night’s dream, like smoke, will blow away,

today will come — and it will be forgot.

So with this earthly life — when death is nigh,

and on the death-bed frozen falls our hand,

closing the lid of our wondering eye,

we never will recall or understand!

16 Sept. 1930

637. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961).To my wife[293]

I know not how or why, at whose behest,

by what strange powers of the earth or sky,

you share with me my crust of bread, and lie

close to the heart that heats within my breast.

In days that are inspired, as on the day

of death — you are inseparably near.

All else will pass, all else will disappear…

I he constant shining of your eyes will stay.

16 Sept. 1930

638. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Ангел[294]

As slaves are driven from behind

with w hip and shouts that don't abate,

so I am goaded by my blind,

my cruel and relentless fate.

In such a servitude and pain

what boundless strengths one must possess

in order not to go insane

or die from hunger and distress!

But as the day grows ever dimmer

it s pierced — so often! — from the skies

by slender wings that lightly shimmer

and luminous transparent eyes.

I die so slowly, crawling, groping…

Yet as I reach the gate of heaven

I know that he will pull it open

and with his wing will help me in.

[1930]

639. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Два восьмистишия[295]

Don't go away, for I am lost,

stay here, for I am cold;

upon my chest my hands are crossed

that I may not unfold.

I cannot lift my eyes to see,

it's cold, and dark as well.

This cannot be, this cannot be

the bottom of the well…

[1930]

640. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Никогда я так жалок не был…»[296]

Never felt I more to be pitied,

ridiculous, clumsy, weak;

I dreamed I was turning blind,

the sky was a blackened streak.

Oh, weight of unseeing sadness,

remembrance of earthly day!

Invisible voices, crying,

ran past me upon their way.

Oh, death without putrefaction,

insatiable worm of night.

I summoned God to redeem me,

but it was you who replied.

The lower your voice, the softer,

the more the answer grew clear:

«My dear, I hear you, I hear you,

there is no salvation, dear!»

[1930]

641. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Сердце[297]

It all will be as I have always wished:

over my feet the cover will be white

and white will be the ribbon of the wreath

around my forehead, grown cold and dark.

Keeping my earthly, my familiar look,

three long, three not-to-be-forgotten days

alone upon the table I will lie.

Pompous and solemn, the memorial mass

will be performed above me by the priest

and silently around me there will stand

my family, my enemies, my friends,

and those with whom I lived and whom I'd met;

and the transparent pallor of her face

will lend an added beauty to my wife.

It all will be as I have always wished.

And only you will never have a chance,

in your great longing and your last despair,

to touch my hand, my all but living hand,

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