White Angel, from Konstantin Balmont
From childhood days one trait has captivated
My dreams, in whose swells sleep has melted down.
It has sown in my eyes a sad reflection,
which as quiet distant peal came in my mind.
I dreamed of a sad angel, white as snow,
With a smile of repentance in his eyes,
I breathed with him one sadness so uncertain,
And saw in his tears pale Paradise.
To me in different moments he appeared,
Of these runaway meetings I keep light.
These glimpses cannot fall into oblivion,
This glance without words, speech which can't run dry.
I loved - and I'm still loving - all from heavens
The mind of the heart - the beam of cold mind,
And I believe in heanev, blue and native,
Where all the vague I clearly understand.
With heavenly I can't be seperated,
And when I meet with somebody's deep glance,
I am with him, I meet with the White Angel,
Mysterious and close for a long time.
***
Белый ангел» Константин Бальмонт
От детских дней одна черта пленила
Мои мечты, в чьих зыбях таял сон,
В глаза печальный отблеск заронила,
В мой ум вошла как дальний тихий звон.
Мне снился грустный ангел, белоснежный,
С улыбкой сожаления в глазах,
Я с ним дышал одной печалью неясной,
Я видел бледный Рай в его слезах.
Он мне являлся в разные мгновенья,
И свет храню я этих беглых встреч.
Есть проблески, которым нет забвенья,
Есть взгляд без слов, его не молкнет речь.
Любил — еще люблю я — неземное,
Ум сердца — луч холодному уму,
Я верю в Небо, синее, родное,
Где ясно все неясное пойму.
С небесным я душой не разлучаюсь,
И встретив чей-нибудь глубокий взор,
Я с ним, я с Белым Ангелом встречаюсь,
Таинственным и близким с давних пор
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
OK, here is an angel not worthy of heaven, it's not a demon, just not pure enough, or truthful enough to live in Heaven. But Balmont did not abandon it, he wrote a poem of understanding and compassion. Am I so much less than this White Angel that my fate at your hands is exile. I vividly remember as a child thinking I wasn't worthy like my sister and parents. I felt cut off from saving grace, an outsider unblessed if not cursed. Where did that view come from? I grew out of that phase of my life but I NEVER forgot that sense of exile. No Balmont gave me comfort. I feel that sense of exile again, and no Balmont comforts and helps. Must I be both White Angel and Poet, both victim and rescuer?
Daniel, after reading such a painful comment - I see that you need to be needed. So why to lose you? if I may use you! Let's make a book - you choose from my poems those without mistakes in English and make Selected poems. You may also write your favorite comments and preface. Without you I can't see mistakes. So - you ask who you must be - both editor and commentator! I want to publish it in 2016, since I wrote them in 2016. So be quick please!