New Stanzas to Augusta

M. B.

I

Tuesday Early September.
The rain fell all night.
All the birds flew away.
Only I'm so lonely and brave,
it did not even look after them.
Desert sky destroyed, 1
rain pulls clearance.
I do not need a south.

yl

here, buried alive,
I wander in the twilight stubble.
I boot my tears Field,
raging at me Thursday,
but cut the stems climb up,
almost without pain.
And willow twigs,
plunging pink cape
in the swamp, where disarming,
mutter, knocking down
nest zhulana.

III

Stuchi and hlyupay, bubble, şurşi.
I do not speed up your step.
Known to you only spark
extinguish, mascara.
Frozen hand pressed to his thigh,
I wander from the hill to the Mount,
without memory, one somehow sound,
sole knock on stones.
Sklonyayas for dark ruchyu,
I look with dismay.

IV

Well, let him lay the shadow of meaninglessness
in my eyes, and let soak dampness
my beard, and a cap - on one side –
crowning the twilight, reflected
how so feature, that soul
do not go –
I seek no longer
for shade, for pugovku, over the goal,
for his boots, for his sleeve.
Only the heart suddenly clogged, finding,
somewhere I proporot: cold
shakes his, hitting me in the chest.

V

Mutters before me water,
and stretches frost tear mouth.
Otherwise you could not utter: what can
be the person, a place, where open
occurred?
And laugh my crooked
gloomy and disturbing causeway.
And crumble dark gust of rain.
And the image of my second, As a person,
runs from reddish eyelids,
He jumps on a wave
under the pines, then under the willow,
mingled with other counterparts,
as I have never lost my.

WE

Stuchi and hlyupay, chew rotten bridge.
Let abyss, surrounding churchyard,
suck the paint cross.
But even that way with the tip of grass
swamp not add blue…
trample barns,
bushuy among the dense foliage more,
intrude into the depth of the roots!
And there, in the land, like here, in my chest
all the ghosts of the dead and wake,
and let them run, cutting angle,
the stubble to the deserted villages
and waving flown days,
as hats scared!

VII

Here in the hills, among the empty heavens,
among roads, leading only to the forest,
life recedes from itself
and looks in amazement at form,
rustling around. I korni
It clings to boots, snuffling,
and off all the lights in the village.
And I wander on the no man's land
and Nothingness asking rent,
and the wind tears my hands warm,
and splashed me with water hollow,
twists and dirt trails tape.

VIII

Yes, there seemed really no me,
I'm somewhere in the side, for bortom.
Bristling and climbs up stubble,
the hair on the body of the dead,
and over the nest, stretched out in the grass,
boils ants fuss.
Nature deals with onetime,
as usual. But the face of it at the same time –
Let drenched sunset light –
unwittingly done evil.
And with all five fingers senses - five –
I was repelled by the forest:
not, Jesus! in front of the curtain,
and I did not turn into a judge.
And if his trouble
I still have not coped with,
you, Oh god, Bran hand my,
as the Finn for theft.

IX

another Polydeuces, everything merged into a spot.
my mouth does not break out from groaning.
Here I am standing in an unbuttoned coat,
and the world flows into the eye through a sieve,
through a sieve misunderstanding.
I am deaf. I, Oh god, blindness.
I do not hear the words, and exactly twenty watts
moon lit. Even so. the heavens
I will even make a Course are not among the stars and drops.
Let echo here carries on Forests
no song, and cough.

X

September. Night. The whole society - candle.
But the shadow is still looking over his shoulder
in my sheets and digs into the roots
dangling. And your ghost in the hall
rustling and bubbling water
and smiling a star
in the wide-open door with a jerk.

I have to darken the light.
The water pulls a trace.

XI

Yes, heart goes out to you all the stronger,
and because it - farther.
And in my voice more falsehood.
But you think for her the fate of debt,
for the fate of debt, does not require blood
and injuring a blunt needle.
And if you expect a smile - wait!
I smile. Smile on a
sepulchral more durable roof
and easier to smoke over chimney.

XII

Evterpa, you? Where I went, but?
And that is beneath me: water? grass?
process lira heather,
a curved horseshoe,
that happiness fancies,
such, what, may be,
proceeding on pace to gallop
so quickly and not to knock the breath,
I know not, neither you, nor Calliope.

1964

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