Sea 60h95 Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky (1817-1900)

NIGHT SHORE

With a fleshy sack,
Scarcely will you heed the abysses,
But with your soul – yes –
I would like to believe in that abyss,
Where there is radiant power, and entrust it
A lump of soul.
How young is she?

It has become night to eat –
Is sustenance, in essence,
What defines reality, before which your
Mind cowers?
Will you sell your honor for sweeter food?
The fear of death is ancient, like a lizard,
Its a pity it hasnt disappeared.

So, the soul –
How young is she? –
Does she grow old from all the grievances you know,
And from the losses?
Eat slowly.
In food, you lose
Questions, beast –
To realize
How comfortable it is to be an animal?
We pant in ambitions, we sweat in illnesses,
A wet bed.

The soul is a lump –
Is she just a trembling lump?
Her portrait
Could be given by a true genius.
Isnt that so?

Poems, poems…
Covered like wounds, the paper,
Vanitys prey.
Lead shot – they are called sins.
And self-denial is courage,
A rejection of absurd nonsense,
Except
For what you write in a line,
It will pass through your spine with fire.
You climbed onto a mound,
If it was published – and he shouts
The poet.
... now theres a night plot around me.

Two poplars outside the windows gaze
At the sky, where there is a green moon,
Her rays shimmer from under the water,
What depth.
A sudden sharp bark
So frightened, like a shot.
And a poem that has matured –
In the soul? – the edge
Of today, where
Everything is fast, everything flashes, everything spins,
And it rushes into tomorrow
In a crowd of metro cars.
The page is
Filled with poems, and it will go to oblivion.
Theres a grapefruit left in the refrigerator.

Cling to the earthly! –
No! Im tired!
Seeking the city, you sometimes find
Flaws in that very thing,
Familiar.
What is given to such tiny creatures
We barely understand.

Will we
Change for the better, become kinder
To each other?
And marketing and management – they
Are considered a vertical structure, it seems.
Go to the hills,
From which the view
Is better than from Vladivostoks hills.
We go to our graves from nipples,
And the path is frightening.

But what! Is life
Just a path to death? Thats the definition,
Whose accuracy causes amazement –
In the definition, of course, there is an oxide of lies.
But how, soul,
How can I feel you, realize you, and strive
With your strength to break away to that height,
That is good?

Night draws juices
From the roots of the mind.
All nights are multi-eyed.
Drink wine of hope...

Has it gone bad?
Is the infant far from death,
When he is closer to eternity,
Having just begun his role?

Well – is it better not to be born?
It cannot be that every birth is
Just a coincidence!
Meaning must shine
In everything – rays of high
Worlds provide the lonely
With the opportunity to say something essential.

And let her –
Death, which I have in mind –
Is frightening – but so strong
Holy radiant power,
That I, humbling myself, will be able
To reach the source someday.