"Новые стансы к Августе"
(Иосиф Бродский)
II
Here, buried alive,
I wander in the stubble at twilight.
My boot is tearing apart the plain,
Thursday rages above,
and the cut stalks climb up,
almost not feeling pain.
The willow's bars,
sticking the pinkish headland
into the swamp with guards dismissed,
and muttering, unravelled
the Shrike's nest.
III
Knock, squish and rustle, gurgle.
I won't speed up my pace.
Only to you known sparkle
extinguish and suppress.
With frozen palm pressed to my hip,
I'm wandering from hill to hill,
oblivious and with a kind of scream,
knocks on the stones the sole.
Leaning towards the dark stream
I look with awe.
* oblivious and with a kind of sound,
knocks on the stones the sole.
Leaning towards the ground
I look with awe.