And I loved much. And I had gone through
The crazy hop of all love hell.
There were defeats, there were the triumphs,
And one name - enemy, word - friend.
There were so many... What I share?
The memoirs, the shadows of dreams...
I only repeat in odd way
Their golden names as sudden gleam.
There were so many. But one ever
Is line, which joins them together,
One insane beauty at one level:
The passion and my life bevalued.
And making mystery of passion,
Rising above the earth in it,
I saw the other one, intending
To lie on this bed of a yen...
Then weasels - same, then speeches - same ones,
The shameful shiver of the lips,
And shoulders, lest streaking other...
No! World is stolid, empty, clean!
And, filling with a joy my breast once
From top of the snowy high peaks,
I send the avalanch to canyons,
Where I'd loved, where I had kissed.
30 march 1908
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I can't tell if Blok is writing autobiographically or using a persona. I tend to think the speaker of the poem is a persona. Whoever this man might be, his way of life is exhausting him morally and not bringing him any happiness. Everything is rushing at a furious velocity, perhaps because of too much alcohol consumption. Blok expresses a dead-end attitude toward this life of sensuality - excessive sensuality. He seems to have no real awareness of the women he either charms or alienates. What should be a heavenly experience is hellish.