The Word rises in my soul…
It bangs by the roofs with drops of the rain,
It lightens the heart again and again
With scarlet autumn leaves; the Heavens dome
It opens like doors to my sweet home;
It builds tall towers and spans arranges,
Deliberately with an accidental bliss,
Sets down characters and marks the pages -
Too well it knows how my soul to please.
The Word rises in my soul…
It breaks against the rocks and weeps;
Its strength I feel and covenant its sweeps;
Still sharp it is – alike a combat knife
Runs through the heart it darts along the life.
The Word cries wildly, thirstily drinks dreams,
And the concealed lays bare, as it seems.
Alike a queen in a boudoir of mirrors
It rules out destinies, stirs, whips and blears.
The Word rises in my soul…
With anxious conscience it necessitates truths!
My soul is bleeding - heavy are the climbing boots…
With steps I measure reasons - flaps of wings
For me seem similar to some sword’s swings.
Confessable is the poetry… in holy ways
An instant truth would show to me its face!
It seems the fortune in the Word is hidden –
With it I’ll, heart and soul, obtain the Eden…
(Переводчик В.В. Чистяков)