June 23rd, 2005

лялёнок

(no subject)

Impossible! Spring's at the gate! The lightning shines like a spoon-bait.
The height roars like a firing squad. Where have I looked, oh God?

The folks have to the forests gone. Your time has come, oh gnat! Come on!
Grow, nettles! Now it's time to spread! But I have slept like mad.

While sinking in the quivering stream of drowsiness, I had a dream.
To court I rode from my exile. That's not a lucky sign!

The path was empty, clean and clear, but from the bushes jumped a hare
and kicked me off my thoroughfare. Oh no! How could you, hare?

I tell my soul: wake up, old hag. "Deja, deja" - it answers back.
But what's the point, if it's been years since you saw stars, shed tears?

The voice is false, the feet askew, the teeth much less than thirty-two.
The years went likewise down the drain. Oh youth! Where is your trail?

To open windows wide and yell: it's spring, it's spring! Impossible!
The rope gets tighter round one's neck. That's it. Well, what the heck.

A friend of mine from days bygone, tight-lipped you are in lands beyond.
Why don't you call me once a day, so I don't fade away.

Call me to lie, to whisper "love", call any time - sleep's not my stuff.
For lies I won't be mad at you. I am a liar, too.

So don't believe the liar's tune. He never did howl at the moon.
He's apt to voice a languid phrase to frighten wives and maids.

But he is merry and robust, and, having ten deft stanzas cast,
is clowning by the window sill: it's spring! Impossible...