A.Blok, The Song Of Hell - Translation (Rus.) - Poem by Lyudmila Purgina
A day has burned on sphere of the Earth,
Where I did search the ways and shorter days.
The violet twilight has been laying long,
Where I'm absent, there. I'm taking way
Through underground night. I go,
I slide along the slopes of the rocks -
Here's the Hell - familiar, although.
He's looking in my hollow eyes. And thrown
I was into the bright ball dance,
In its magnificent surround оf masks, overlooking love.
Where's my sattelite? - Where're you, dear Beatriche?
I am alone, and I've lost the righter path.
It's so usual in the underground rivers
To sink in flow of a horror dark.
The river carries friends and corpses,
And somewhere is seen the asking gaze,
Or someone's breast... Or someone's woe,
Or someone's tender scream - so avaricious,
Fallen from the lips. The words had gone.
The head is clasped with the ring of pain,
So blunt and sensless, as of iron;
And I've turned from a singer naive -
To a rejected one, without a right!
And everyone aspires presipice, without hope.
I'm - the same one. And see there in the break of cliffs,
Above the foam of flow, white as a snow,
In front of me - the hall infinite.
The row of cactuses and roses,
So fragrant, pieces of the dark
In depth of transparent mirrors;
And there the distant mornings, blinking,
Are gilded by the overthrown idol;
And stuffy air gasped my breathing.
This hall was like the awful world,
Where I was wandering as blind creature,
As in wild tale, where a feast was on my road.
There - the gaping masks were thrown;
There - by oldman wife was tempted,
Impudent light their vile caress has shown...
But window's binding turned then red
Before the morning cold kiss,
And strange, the silence turned to pink.
In that time we are spending night in land,
So blessed without earth's deceit,
And I'm gazing at it in presentiment.
In deepness of the mirror through the mist
Towards me, from the nets of horror,
The young man's coming. And he is
All tightened in his suit, with rose in buttonhole,
Which colour is similar to lips
Of this dead man, on the finger - the sign
Of such a mystic marriage - the amethyst is shining;
And I look in the awkward features
Of his pale face with feeling imperceptible
And ask him with a voice mine muffled:
'Say, why is it the need for you to grieve,
To wander along the cicles irretrievable? '
The features of his face confused all,
The burned mouth is breathing air greedy,
And from the void I hear voice:
'Do know: I was sentenced to the torment,
And ruthless one, for being under yoke
Of passion desolate on earth.
And when our town in the darkness goes -
Catched by the wave of crazy song,
With a seal of crime on my great forehead,
As fallen and humiliated virgin,
I seek oblivion in joy of wine...
And then it strikes the hour of anger:
From deep of the unprecendented site,
From dream there waved, and dazzled,
And shined - the miraculous wife!
In evening ring of the fragile goblet,
In drunken mist when met with you for moment,
With you, who my caress threw over,
I felt, I reached the first triumph!
I've sank in her eyes with my eyes!
I let it out my love shout!
So that time at once has come close,
And darkness was deaf, evening - gloomy.
In sky there appeared the meteors,
This amethyst was all in blood, truly,
And I drank blood from fragrant shoulders,
And this juice was strong and resinous...
But don't curse the tales strange, though
About how the dream was lasting...
From chasms of night, from hazy gorges
The music funeral was heard;
The toungue of fire has raised up high
In orderthe time uselessness to burn!
And - close tied with the immeasurable chains -
By whirl we're carried to the underground!
Forever fettered by the dreams vague,
She has ability to feel pain, and to revive out
The feast, when the vampire leans to her neck
And shoulders with need for blood!
But my lot - isn't it too terrible? -
When here the cold and ill sunrise
Illuminates the Hell with it's cold glare,
From hall to hall I go to realize
The precept, persued by passion craving, -
Have pity and remember this, the poet mine:
I'm doomed in far darkness of bedroom,
Where she is sleeping so hot,
And I decline at her in love mood
To stick a ring in the white shoulder! '
30th oct 1909
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