Материал из Wikilivres.ruПерейти к навигацииПерейти к поиску
It is as if I have forgotten what I wanted to say.
The blind swallow will return to the hall of shades,
On cut wings, to play with the transparent ones.
In unconsciousness the night song is sung.
No birds are heard. The immortelle does not bloom.
Transparent are the manes of the night herd.
On a dry river drifts an empty shell.
Among grasshoppers unconscious lies the word.
And slowly grows, as if a tent or temple,
Now feigns to be mad Antigone,
Now as a dead swallow flings itself at the feet
With Stygian tenderness and a green branch.
Oh to return both the shame of seeing fingers,
And the vivid joy of knowing.
I fear so much the sobbing of the Aonides,
Mist, ringing and hiatus.
To mortals power is given to love and to come to know,
For them sound, too, will spill into the fingers,
But I have forgotten what I want to say,
And the incorporeal thought to the hall of shades will return.
Always the wrong thing the transparent one repeats,
Always swallow, friend, Antigone . . .
And on the lips like black ice burns
The recollection of Stygian ringing.
Osip Mandelstam, November 1920