Clear Voices | Page 2

hours take away
fragments of our life: and you and I

plan how to live and, - just like that - we die.
No happiness on
earth, yet there's freedom, peace.
I've long dreamt of an enviable fate
-
I've long thought, a weary slave, to fly
to some far place of labour
and true joy.
Fëdor Tyútchev (1803-1873)
Silentium
Silence: hide yourself, conceal
your feelings and your dreams -
let
them rise and set once more
in the abyss of your spirit,
silent, white
stars in the night -
wonder at them - and be silent.
How can one's
own heart speak?
How can another know?
Will they see what you
live by?
A thought once spoken is a lie:
troubling the streams, you
cloud them -
drink from them - and be silent.
Know how to live
deep inside -
there's a universe in your mind
of mysterious thoughts,
enchantments:
they'll be drowned by World outside
they'll be
driven off by daylight -
hear them singing - and be silent! …
My Darling
My darling, I love your eyes
with their miraculous flash of fire,

when you lift them for an instant
and, like lightning from the sky,

cast a swift glance around you.
But there's a greater magic still:

your eyes downcast
in a passionate kiss
and through your lowered
lashes
the dark, smouldering flame of desire.
I Knew
I knew two eyes - those eyes, oh
how I loved them - God
knows.
I couldn't tear my soul
from their intense, bewitching
darkness.

Such sorrow, such passion showed
in that deep gaze

that laid life bare,
such depth, such sorrow!
Sad and self-absorbed it

trembled,
in the deep shadow of her lashes,
wearied like sensual
pleasure,
and deadly like pain.
And in those magic moments
there
was never a time
I met it without emotion,
or admired it without
tears.
Eve of the Anniversary (4th August 1864)
I walk on, down the road,

in the quiet evening light,
my heart is heavy, my legs are weary….

my dearest one, can you see me?
Darker and darker on earth -
the
last glint of day is done…
this world where we were together,
my
angel, can you see me?
Tomorrow, sadness and prayer,
tomorrow
that day's anniversary…
my angel wherever souls may be,
my angel,
can you see me?
Mikhaíl Lérmontov (1814-1841)
The Dream
Noon heat, a gorge in Daghestan,
I lay still, a bullet in my chest:

The deep wound was still red-hot,
blood seeped, drop by drop.
I lay
lonely on the gorge's sand,
the cliff-ledges towered around,
the sun
burned their yellow heights,
and I - I slept like the dead.
And I
dreamed of a midnight ball,
in my homeland, gleaming light,
young
girls wreathed in flowers
talking about me, with delight.
But one sat
there, deep in thought,
not part of the joyful theme,
and her young
soul, God knows,
was plunged in the saddest dream.
Her dream, a
gorge in Daghestan…
in that gorge a friend lay dead,
a black
wound in his chest:
of dark blood a cooling stream…
Alone
Alone, I come to the road.
The stony track gleams in the mist:

the calm night listens to God,
and star is speaking to star.
All's
marvellous, grave, in the sky!
Earth sleeps in the radiant blue…

Why such pain then, such weight on the heart?
Do I regret, wait for
something new?
I expect no more from this life
and I've no regrets
for the past.
I look for freedom and peace:
I want rest and oblivion

at last…
But not the chill peace of the grave:
I'd like to sleep for all
time
so life's powers slept in my chest,
and it heaved with my gentle
breath:
an enchanted voice in my ear
singing, day and night, of love:

and a dark oak to rustle over me,
and bend down from above.
Count Alekséy Tolstoy (1817-1875)
Spring
It was at the dawn of spring,
the grass was barely green,
streams ran,
the heat was gentle,
light shone through the trees:
no sound of
shepherd's flute
yet, in the morning world,
and the slender forest
fern
was still so tightly curled.
It was at the dawn of spring,
in the
shadow of the birch-trees,
that you dropped your gaze
before me
with a smile…
It was in reply to love, my love,
your glance was
lowered -
O life! O leaves! O sunlight!
O youth! O hope!
And I
wept before you,
as I gazed at your sweet face -
it was at the dawn
of spring,
in the shadow of the birch-trees!
In the morning of our
lives -
O happiness! O heartache!
O leaves! O life! O sunlight!
O
the fragrance of the trees!
Innokénty Ánnensky (1856-1909)
The Bow and the Strings
'How deep and dark the delirium!
How clouded the moonlit heights!

To have touched the violin so long
yet not know the strings in the
light!
Who wants us now? Who lights
two faded melancholy
faces?'…..
And the bow felt someone suddenly
seize them, and
bring them together.
'Oh how long! Tell me the one thing,

in the
dark: are you the same, the same?'
And the strings pressed close,
caressing
sounding, trembling in that caress.
'Is it true, yes? Enough
separation,
and we'll not part again?'
And the violin said yes

though its heart was gripped with pain.
The bow knew, and was still,

but the note rang in the violin,
and what seemed music to others,

was torment and ruin to them.
And till dawn the player did not

quench
the candles…the strings sang on instead…
and the sun,
alone, found