You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms...
If you were music, I would listen to you ceaselessly, and my low spirits would brighten up.
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.
I seem to myself, as in a dream, An accidental guest in this dreadful body.
My shadow serves as the friend I crave.
Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.
As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.
Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to you in waking dreams.
I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.
And you know, I agree to everything: I will condemn, I will forget, I will give comfort to the enemy, Darkness will be light and sin lovely.
We learned not to meet anymore, We don't raise our eyes to one another, But we ourselves won't guarantee What could happen to us in an hour.
Wild honey smells of freedom The dust - of sunlight The mouth of a young girl, like a violet But gold - smells of nothing.
I have a lot of work to do today; I need to slaughter memory, Turn my living soul to stone Then teach myself to live again.
That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: "she wanted storms.
Regarding myself as a mere echo, Cave-like, unintelligible and nocturnal . . .
Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again--
... he is rewarded with a form of eternal childhood, with the bounty and vigilance of the stars, the whole world was his inheritance and he shared it with everyone.
Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.
Let whoever wants to, relax in the south, And bask in the garden of paradise. Here is the essence of northand it's autumn I've chosen as this year's friend.
Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, who suffered death because she chose to turn. - Lot's Wife
We are all carousers and loose women here; How unhappy we are together!
But then he touched the flowers With the dry tips of his fingers. "Tell me how men kiss you. Tell me how you kiss.
All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
Real tenderness can’t be confused, It’s quiet and can’t be heard.
Now that you're there, where everything is knowntell me: What else lived in that house besides us?
It is good here: rustle and snow-crunch... Ski tracks on the splendid finery of the snow; a memory that long ages ago we passed here together.
Why is it that you still beguile me – As wind, stone, bird – and all the likes? Why is that you smile on me – With sudden summer lightning strikes?
No one else was as close and as open, No one else so boiled my blood, Even he, who consigned me to torment, Even he, who caressed and forgot.
He loved three things in this life: Vespers, white peacocks, And old maps of America, Didn't love children crying, Raspberries with tea, Or feminine hysteria ...And I was his wife.
I knew: the gods turned once, in their madness, Men into things, not killing humane senses. You’ve been turned in to my reminiscences To make eternal the unearthly sadness.
Forgive me that I felt forsaken, That grief and angst was all I knew. Forgive me that I kept mistaking Too many other men for you.
Not under foreign skies Nor under foreign wings protected - I shared all this with my own people There, where misfortune had abandoned us.
You are many years late; how happy I am to see you
No other looked into her secret eyes. Nobody dared.
And it’s not because I’m tortured Or by some delirium swayed That I conjure up misfortune: It is just my trade.
I’m happy. But some beauty is nonesuch - The gently sloping path across the wood, The wretched bridge that’s just a little skewed And that, for which, I won’t be waiting much.
I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house
We will not drink from the same cup - Neither water nor sweet wine is ours, We will not kiss as the sun goes up Or gaze at the night, on the sill, for hours. I breathe by the moon, you – by the sun
Sunset in the ethereal waves: I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if the secret of secrets is inside me again.
Beyond the lake the waning moon has slowed, And stands there like a window open wide Into a hushed and brightly lit abode Where something dreadful has occurred inside.
I live like a cuckoo in a clock, I'm not jealous of the forest birds. They wind me up—and I cuckoo. You know—such a fate I could only wish For someone I hate.
All my contemporaries— hundred-and-fivers or convicts— will tell you how we lived in barely sentient fear, raising children for the executioner, prison, or the torture chamber.
And you, my friends! So few of you remain That you are dearer daily. I rejoice In you. How short the road has become, That once appeared the longest road of all.
Posljednji susret bio nam je taj na obali gdje smo uvijek se sretali. Bio je visok Nevin vodostaj. Od poplave su u gradu strepili. Pričao je o ljetu i o tom da je za ženu pjesnikom biti - rđavo.
