The sled goes dashing through the ruts, Past booths and peasant women’s huts, Street urchins, streetlamps, gardens, gates, Palaces, monasteries, estates.
Bukharans, sleighs, and cabbage fields, Shopkeepers, shanties — all that yields, Boulevards, towers, Cossack men, Pharmacies, fashion shops, and then
Balconies, lions carved in stone, And crosses where the jackdaws groan.
Я сжег себя на медленных кострах, Отдал себя всем ветрам и дорогам И по полю развеял серый прах Души моей, взыскующей о многом.
Уста мои сдружились с немотой, И насмерть слух молчаньем черным ранен; Луна взойдет над древней пустотой — Мне зов ее понятен и желанен.
В дыхании размеренных Часов Один закон, заложенный судьбою: – Ни чисел нет, ни меры, ни весов, И все дела – развеются с тобою.
I burned myself on slow bonfires, deep and long, Gave myself to the winds and every track. Across the field I scattered, gray and strong, The ash of my soul won’t come back.
My lips have made a friendship with the mute, My hearing’s mortally wounded by black silence. The moon will rise above the ancient, bare pursuit I know her call, I long for its fierce violence.
In the slow breathing of the measured hours One law is written by the fate I own: There are no numbers, weights, nor scaling powers, And all your deeds will scatter like a bone.
DeepSeek’s translation of Vladimir Korovin-Piotrovsky poem (Владимир Корвин-Пиотровский)
Vika Magnitskaya design
Posted by Vika Magnitskaya on апреля 13, 2026 at 14:22 under poetry.
Tags: death, life, poem, poetry
