Ты знаешь, чего я хочу.
Быть может, всего - во Вселенной:
в падении - тьмы неистленной,
во взлете - сияния… но умолчу.
ну где? где мне записывать? на лбу.. на запястьях..
никакая система знаков и символов не помогает!
я смогу, я смогу, я могу
Te voglio bene assai
Ma tanto tanto bene sai
è una catena ormai
che scioglie il sangue dint'e vene sai
Любовь — как кошка: она все равно поцарапает вас, даже если вы хотели всего лишь поиграть с ней.
А cranky old man
What do you see?
What are you thinking. .. when you're looking at me?
A cranky old man,. . . not very wise,
Uncertain of habit.. . . . . with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food. .. …. . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice…'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice. . . the things that you do.
And forever is losing…. A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not… lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding. . . . The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?.. Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse. you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am. . . . . . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding,. .. . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten. . with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters. .. . . .. who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen. . . . . with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now. . . .. . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty. . . . .my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows. .. .. that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now. . . . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide. . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty. . .. . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other. . . .With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons. .. have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me. . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more,. .…Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children. . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me. . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future…. . . . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing. .. . young of their own.
And I think of the years. . . And the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man. . . . . . . . and nature is cruel.
It's jest to make old age. . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles. .. .. grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone. . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass. A young man still dwells,
And now and again. . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys. . . . . .. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living. . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few. . . . gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact. . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people. .. . . . .. . open and see.
Not a cranky old man. Look closer. . . . see. .. .. . .….. ME!!
иллюзии
морозные, февральские, дня-всех-влюбленные иллюзии
Есть минуты, когда не тревожит
Роковая нас жизни гроза.
Кто-то на плечи руки положит,
Кто-то ясно заглянет в глаза…
И мгновенно житейское канет,
Словно в темную пропасть без дна…
И над пропастью медленно встанет
Семицветной дугой тишина…
И напев заглушенный и юный
В затаенной затронет тиши
Усыпленные жизнию струны
Напряженной, как арфа, души.
Блок
Нет ничего более пагубного для художника, чем верхоглядство, удовлетворенность приблизительными результатами и самообольщение.
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