Превод на английски: Том Филипс
THE ICONS ARE SLEEPING
SERPENT
‘Me, mother, the serpent loves me …’
Leave me be!
– The Fire Serpent is my lover!
in flame and blasting storms
– serpents with white steeds
serpents in golden coaches –
on stretched
far-reaching
wings
every evening
he comes to me.
Come!
Clasp me with wild and savage arms
against your scaly breast’s red stars
your brutal heart
drenched in purple blood:
take me, scald me with the fury
of your fiery kiss –
haul me from here
take to the air
and bear me
– away, faraway, faraway –
over forests, peaks, clefts and boneyards,
to your nameless kingdom
– oh monster, oh dream! –
where there’s no morning, evening, days nor years:
there!
Oh, I am sure:
You are He!
Don’t deny my one prayer,
sate my one desire –
oh … stay! – –
after fierce, torrid strife,
out cold, I won’t know –
I’ll fade – stripped –
in sweet, unholy embrace
– no, no, no! –
I fall
– you too –
and we fly
through fire and stars and smoke,
green whirlpools of snakes
bristling lances –
on steep paths unseen –
ash, crash,
clang and clash:
– no, no, no!
Oh!
– awakened by
the carillon’s chime.
At dawn in a deserted land
down on my knees
I mourn
tthe monstrous corpse of my dream.
LAMENT
‘Mourn, forest, mourn, sister, let us mourn together’
The cold winter forest unfolds
woeful paths for me ahead:
an early – (wounded) – dawn
behind black branches burns.
The world draws me on through fearful places,
steaming, I shudder in barren marshes
– oh forest, my black sister!
your black leaves
weep my tears – slowly – sourly repeat
my lament, my cries, my grief:
Oh – where is he!
(There – perhaps my grieving love’s grave is calling.)
Day and night
no respite
I search him out,
going ongoing on
through the world
on bloodied legs and lifeless
– soul deep in the night –
night and day
no delay,
years untold
and uncounted:
where is he?
(And the winter wind sends forth
a cold, heart-rending cry
– a petrified howl –
and the distant earth darkens
in painless grief.)
– Oh forest, my black sister! –
In blind caves he’s murdered by the sun:
on grim nights, no stars, no light,
he rises, wading through blood
to the crossroads stitched into the meadows.
My pain gains upon him
– ghost with no flesh.
Red from murder, black from dead fog,
he comes into my dreams
(the icons are sleeping)
alien, awful, before the dawn
(the icons are sleeping)
and throws at my feet
black heads and bloody shirts
(the icons are sleeping.)
I have no eyes, no face anymore
– Oh forest, my black sister!
and the way before me winds
its bitter coil beneath the ghastly dawn.
CROSS
‘How come, lass, you’ve turned into a nun …’
Simply robbed of all relief
– in the mountains’ stern expanse –
today your beauty’s besieged
by black cloister cross and stone …
(‘Nameless stone in a lifeless expanse’)
The evening bells mourn
your dying young dream;
for whom it tolls; keen sound –
in your lust-tormented breasts …
(‘Last without a waking dream’)
But naked beneath your gown –
a burning finger inside
thrusts you on to love – through
a universe pierced with yearning …
(‘Above me, hollow black dust’)
GRAVE
‘… there I’ll make my grave,
I’ll write my name
and my heavy burdens!’
Into your green gaze I’m sinking –
sinister, passionless, pale,
to me your smile is grim as ice,
and every touch – harsh metal;
I drink warm draughts of ash-water,
no wailing, no mourning, no grief;
oh, a sour fleeting hour lures me deep
into rocks and lichen and wasteland.
Hidden in darkness, there my grave awaits me
– no weeping willow nor cypress –
and carved on the headstone
my name alone: sour record
of my love …
Infinity hangs blind.
Pale garland sunk in silence there.
One blood moon – last quarter –
amid rocks and lichen, wasteland and bones.
END
‘Dobri walked …’
The true seed of happiness
the white dove won’t smite
a charmless marble glaze:
the seed of love is sterile:
the white dove won’t fly
to where my dream cries,
nailed to a crimson post:
one
stays in my hand
here – this very moment – now:
a pistol, painless,
one last cry: the end!
Without love’s plaint or vengeance’s rout,
bury me where I fall:
beneath the eternal sacred soil
– silent, steadfast, cold –
There, where my head falls
– crazed by hollow exhortations –
longings, laments, orations –
build
a cloister there
with tuneful wailing bells
and the true cross
on gold vaults gleaming with flame:
and there
with infinite zeal and humility pray
for my soul
– perhaps because the soul is a lie –
– because perhaps I don’t know –
There in the graveyard
– lifeless –
my heart lies revealing a mouth
torn open by death –
build a fountain there:
Oh, gentle milk of the suckling earth
– unfeeling water –
my heart’s
only blood
my blood’s own mad flood
unleashed
– and –
how serenely it will freeze
in burning wastes
of souls by bitter passion burnt
each
crystal-clear dispassionate
drop:
oh, gentle pearl of peace,
cold alabaster of reconciliation.