О фонтанах
(Translated by A. Karelian)I suddenly understood the essence of the first fountains,
glass crowns the puzzle and a phantom.
They like tears to me, it's too early -
during take-off dreams in anticipation of deceptions -
I lost and then forgotten.
Uzhel I forgot that, and to random things
outstretched arms of Horní spheres?
What I breathed grandeur of the original
old park in the fire of sunset farewell
uplifting - and sound at the edge of the sad
maiden songs, dark, like spells,
shot up to the carotid crowns night
and seemed to become reality, if they
much reflection in the pond waiting for the mirror?
But when I remember at the moment,
what happened to me and fountains,
as the newly I go back to the overthrow,
where the water appeared to me to another world:
then the world branches, who look into the darkness of the well,
world voices, whose flame is barely beating,
ponds that only banks
twists in itself able to repeat the sad,
heaven had suddenly recoiled in embarrassment from
groves sunset, darkness absorbed,
and bulged out differently, and darken,
like lit up the world is not one ...
Uzhel I had forgotten that the sky vault
does not hear us in a solemn desert
and that the star is a star recognizes
only through the tears in this expanse of blue?
maybe, and here we are, in turn,
someone to serve the air. Those people
looks at us in the night and we sing their praises
. Il send it so
curses us. Il cry alone
to us crying, looking for God,
somewhere near us, and the threshold
podemlyut lamps and prayer with the words
elevate - and then on our faces,
как бы от этих ламп, на миг ложится
невыразимый отсвет божества ...
From the fountains
Suddenly I know a lot of the fountains, the incomprehensible
trees made of glass.
I could talk about how to own tears, I
, seized with very big dreams, wasted
once and then forgot.
because I forgot that heaven
rich hands to many things and in the crowd?
Did I not always greatness unparalleled
in the rise of old parks, before the soft
expectant evenings - in pale
from other girls growing chants,
the overflow from the melody
and really are and when they would
reflected in the opened ponds?
I must only think of the All
what happened at fountains, and with me, -
then I feel the burden of the low case,
saw again in what I water
And know of branches, which turned down,
of votes that were burning with low flame,
of ponds, which only the embankments
repeated moronic and moved
of evening skies, which were charred by
western forests completely estranged
differently curved, darkened and did
as if that is not the world she meant ...
I forgot, then, that Stern on Stern petrified
and closes against the neighboring globes?
that the world just like stained
seen in space? - Maybe we're up in heaven
woven of other beings,
the upturned to us in the evening. Maybe we praise
their poets. Perhaps many
pray up to us. Maybe we are the targets of foreign
curses that we never erreichen,
Nachbaren eines Gottes, den sie meinen
in unsrer Höhe, wenn sie einsam weinen,
an den sie glauben und den sie verlieren,
und dessen Bildnis, wie ein Schein aus ihren
suchenden Lampen, flüchtig und verweht
über unsere zerstreuten Gesichter geht ....
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