A keresés eredménye

Eternal Sun

Everything moves, everything passes - and there is no end.
Where it has gone? Whence it has come?
Neither the fool, nor a wise man knows nothing.
Lives... Dies... One has blossomed,
And another has wilted, has wilted forever...
And winds have scattered yellowed leaves.
And the sun will rise, as rose for the first time,
And the red stars, as floated for the first time,
Will float then too. And you, white-faced,
Will go out for a walk on the dark-blue sky,
Will go out to look into the gutter, into the well,
Into the endless sea, and will shine,
As you shone over Babylon, over its gardens,
And over those, what will be with our sons.
 
There is no end - as blue sky,
So there is no beginning and end of the soul.
 

Solitary Endless Path

Maybe it was predestined for me
To follow you through the forests muffled in gloom till the end of my days,
To put my fire on the other side of the valley.
 
To dart off and run to your fire-place in the morning,
To touch with my face alder-trees that are silent witnesses of embraces.
 
Maybe there in downhearted lands of silence
I will follow you through the forests muffled in gloom too.
And I will look for your vestige in dewy grass in the morning.
 

Skies at Our Feet

Valleys fall and cuddle up to feet
Mountains have recoiled, snowstorms wait
Our resilient pace and firm ground of roads
Meets us with a groan of obedience.
 
Will we reach, will we tear off
his skyline and these clouds of rosy?!
And lank wing is singing on my sword
With its mighty breast.
 
We came. We faced respect and fear,
Having overcome swamps, thickets and hills
We brought in our squint eyes
Our skies of green and blue.
 
We didn't perceive the joy. Their endearments
Were impulsive and peculiar
We darted away, prepared and leaved
Everywhere around us the lands, where more southern
 
And even now these children run away
To the mountains like wolf-cubs
And under their brow. There are blue lakes,
Restless of waves and immense of expanse.
 

Where Horizons End

It is easy and clear to lay with a stabbed breast
In tangled grass, in dews on a damp ground
I see everything, my heave sleep is calm
And my eyebrows are stretched on my straight forehead.
 
It was long because we walked through, dales, steppes and mountains
The world wasn't glad for us - stubborn, arrogant and severe,
The lines always broke hardly and strongly,
The colours around us were like stones.
 
The colour has also stew our skin and hair
The battles rendered rough features.
...It is easy and clear to lay in tangled grass...
Grass and flowers will take away my colours.
 

Его двадцать четвертая весна

A cold evening. It's not uncommon. Spring.
A high, deep, bottomless evening.
Heavy dream from fragrance of wet pine trees
In a dewy, star night,
 
Get out of the house alone,
You'll find yourself in the arms of frosty silence.
The evening whispers in a young grove,
Full of silver sparks of dew.
Pure, cold crystal cutter
From the marble of dreams, imagination, thoughts.
The reed sways, all in dew,
Stars mixed up into a strange ball,
One of them will fell quietly into the grass.
 
A cold evening. It's not uncommon. Spring.
 

Furrows of Gods

And early spring laughed: 'It’s time!'
Behind the Black Trail, behind the Great Meadow -
My great-grandfather and great-great, great-great -
Everybody follow Time, like a plough.
 
Behind a field there’s a field, behind a field – a field and a field
Behind the Black Trail, behind the Great Meadow,
They are already in a fog – becoming fog –
Everybody already follow Time, like a plough.
 
What a heavy tread does Eternity have!
Behind the Black Trail, behind the Great Meadow.
So free and young –
Is that I who already follows Time like a plough?!
 
What will I plough? What a field will I sow?
Behind the Black Trail, behind the Great Meadow
Do I really find myself in a fog – becoming fog -
And I already follow Time, like a plough?..
 

When the Flame Turns to Ashes

I used to see you as a wounded eagle
That has been left in the field in agony to die...
Your eyes are watching the damned enemy,
Who wanted to trample you with his feet.
 
You are breathing with anger, you're burning, still alive...
To dig you claw the ground,
With one wing you're beating off the rooks
And laying on the second broken wing...
 
I used to see you as a stately knight,
Who layed in steppe to rest on the stone...
You are hardly sleeping and raving about the lucky battle,
While your enemy is hissing like a snake...
 
My nation! And you - an eagle, that got shot down at night,
And you are knight, who has been captured!
Oh my eagle, my winged giant,
Oh my knight, who has been punished for his sleep!..
 
Why, my eagle, don't you fly with eagles,
Why are you dragging wings, as oars, on the ground?!
Why, my knight, don't you go in battle,
Why you are lamentably crying with a wind on the tillage?!
 
So what is an eagle, if his flock
Doesn't dart off the earth into the blue of serene day,
And what kind of knight are you with a smile of servant,
Without proud thoughts, without honour and a name?!
 

Ars Poetica

To be voiceless, impartial
Like the doors, that are always closed,
To be forgotten like an old statue in the little town.
To know only the love of the stone,
An opaque heart of the stone,
And to see the world in black and white lights-and-shadows.
 
To search only the sense, to search only the horizon of existence –
Sense of existence.
To feel the space: the distant flight of the black birds,
To feel the time: the legible paintings in the black caves,
And to understand your day with an absolute wind, poet.