Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 65

8. THE KING AT THE HUNT

My horse where art thou taking me?

Take me wherever thou will.

My soul is armored safe,

and life is ever free

to rule over itself

and hunt with fierce dogs,

to make cures with eastern potions,

or deal out maladies,

to feed itself in secret

on bears’ and foxes’ milk,

or lie between two lovers

like an old, unblemished sword.

And if—most strange and distant dream—

she stands before me pure?

Not that she is faithful, but because

you can’t exhaust

the depths,

can’t comprehend

the heights;

whoever’s gone beyond Hades’s gates

will never come back, at least

that’s what they say.

O, woman’s will is rude and coarse,

she has no fear, she is

an unrelenting slave . . .

Deer,

my friend,

run on, if it be fate

for you to escape . . .

Yes, rude and coarse and knows

everything once and for all.

Weakening, meanwhile—

that is our handiwork.