You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

How can you look at Nieva,How can on the bridges you rise?With a reason I'm sad since the timeYou appeared before my eyes.Sharp are black angels' wings,The last judgment is coming soon,And raspberry fires, like roses,In the white snow bloom.

Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare,That does not slake thirst, is not wet.Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer.Is it mine to forget?On how many desert roads have searched IWith him who wasn't dear for me,How many bows gave in church IFor him, who had well loved me.I've become more oblivious than inviting,Quietly years swim.Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling --Nothing will give me back him.

True love's memory, You are heavy!In your smoke I sing and burn,And the rest -- is only fireTo keep the chilled soul warm.To keep warm the sated body,They need my tears for thisDid I for this sing your song, God?Did I take part of love for this?Let me drink of such a poison,That I would be deaf and dumb,And my unglorious gloryWash away to the final crumb.

Like a white stone at the bottom of the well,One memory lies in me.I cannot and I do not want to struggle,It is both joy and suffering.I think that anyone who looks into myEyes will all at once see him.More sad and pensive he'll becomeThat heard the story of this suffering.I know that the gods had turnedPeople to objects, without killing mind,That divine sadness lived eternally.You're turned into my memory, I find.

Lying in me, as though it were a white Stone in the depths of a well, is one Memory that I cannot, will not, fight: It is happiness, and it is pain. Anyone looking straight into my eyes Could not help seeing it, and could not fail To become thoughtful, more sad and quiet Than if he were listening to some tragic tale. I know the gods changed people into things, Leaving their consciousness alive and free.To keep alive the wonder of suffering, You have been metamorphosed into me.

Oh, this was a cold dayIn Peter's wonderful town!The shadow grew dense, and the sundownLike purple fire lay.Let him not want my eyes fairProphetic and never-changingAll life long verse he'll be catching -My conceited lips' empty prayer.

Как белый камень в глубине колодца,Лежит во мне одно воспоминанье.Я не могу и не хочу бороться:Оно - веселье и оно - страданье.Мне кажется, что тот, кто близко взглянетВ мои глаза, его увидит сразу.Печальней и задумчивее станетВнимающего скорбному рассказу.Я ведаю, что боги превращалиЛюдей в предметы, не убив сознанья,Чтоб вечно жили дивные печали.Ты превращен в мое воспоминанье.