Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 58

1. KNIGHTS RIDE TO THE TOURNAMENT

And so there can be times,

and such a time can be

when you sense the earth’s heartbeat

and the smoke trailing thin—

the greenwood’s earthy heartbeat

and glory’s smoke so thin.

And the rest will hide away

behind a bush and a tree.

See the riders—how like the sun they are,

their horses made of the dark,

hoof and spear of a child’s hurt,

and their shields of mystery.

They hurry to meet their Pentecost,

their holy day, their feast,

where death will fall like one young rose

upon an open breast.

Do you remember that same rose

looking in at us?

We try to hide our eyes away,

yet still it’s looking in.

And the one who died young and loved,

and having loved himself,

walked and all that was ahead of him,

he touched and turned to living gold—

like Midas, only happier.

And now he is everywhere

and he is that very dream

that the hillside sees and horizon sees,

all those skies that are bright like him

and glorified like him.

Now life is overgrown,

the forests are too dense,

and speech is hard and it’s hard for me

to draw the veil of spirits and shades

away with my own hand.

Some wear black, some lilac,

some scarlet or heavenly blue,

but they ride and ride

and are looking

to where the rose is splashing awash

in the narrow ladle of legends.