Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 28

7. DESIRE

There’s no telling what’s occurred to me:

when someone, anyone, is praised,

then I should be praised still more,

but for what?—that’s not for me to say;

or, that there is no such anger,

no endlessly forgotten village,

and no creature so worthless,

that a spirit could not rise overhead,

a wondrous fife singing out to its treasure;

that there is no death among deaths

whose forces could be set against

my patient, slow-moving life,

like wormwood and weeds—

There’s no telling what’s occurred to me

and will occur, year after year.