Who is protected by the flesh, like a sieve,
for your own soul as for a shield,
breathe wonderful soulfulness
behind the convex shield of his soul.
Your whole life, past like a dream:
two voices, sounded in unison,
trees fluttering noise,
wonderful sufferings your mind
filled, like pomegranate seeds,
subsequently a wonderful argonaut,
subsequently you reign in the minds,
remember, that you reign in the dark,
however, all the time in sight,
remember, that your wife is in hell.

Better without a fool, than without a liar,
better without a singer, than without a rune,
it's better to be sinful, than sinful,
it's easier to drown, the further you go.
But the fate of a swimmer or singer
it’s better to rely on the rower.
Your gaze wanders, gloomy and wild,
heard by Eurydice
beloved singing through hell,
around him silence and stench,
around him his mouth alone,
around him in the darkness emptiness,
in the darkness with an ebony in the eye
beloved singing below.

What silence comes
beautifully framed windows,
when in the dark, immovable all century,
like a pendulum, the person will swing,
and at the same hour, outside and inside,
there will be light, sudden for dawn,
and even ringing over spears of fences,
as if it's a new dial
invades, as if slowly
the soul reigns over the flesh,
and scarlet light, coming from outside,
suddenly reigns in the window,
the window suddenly dissolves,
as if the canvas comes to life.

So Orpheus walked and sang Christ.
So strange you had to blaspheme,
subsequently not at all ashamed.
Beautiful swayed connection,
swayed, the same gremя,
the chain between the two.
So Christ walked and sang Orpheus,
your love, fairies pupil,
screaming in horror, ran to the steppe,
a chain swayed in the dark,
as if a dial and a phone,
a ringing ringing in the dark,
swayed bronze oval,
the mortal ideal swayed.
Swinging pendulum in the hills,
swinging at noon and in the dark,
swinging girl in the window,
rocked by a boy in a dream,
swayed by feeling and bush,
swaying in the empty city,
swinging a tree in the eye,
swayed here and there, at the bottom,
swinging with a girl in his arms,
the cry swayed in full,
swinging a shadow on the wall,
swayed in the womb and out,
swayed, turned pale in the evening,
it rang deafeningly.

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Joseph Brodsky
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