To the Muse

In the deep of your tunes, always secret,
Lie the fatal notation of death,
A damnation of gospels our sacred,
A dishonor of all that is blessed,

And a power so engraving,
That I’m almost sure all time,
That you’ve felled down angels of Heaven
By a sword of your heavenly charm…

When you mock at my own religion,
It begins always shine above you,
As I saw long ago in my visions, –
That strange orb – greyish-purple, pale-blew. 

Kind or evil, you’re out of this Nature,
Though everyone different tells:
For some men you are Muse and great rapture,
But for me you are torment and hell.

I don’t know why in the dawn,
When I finally lost all my strengths,
I didn’t perished, but met you alone,
And begged your consolations in stress.

I portrayed you as rival and blurry
Then why did you put into my arms
Fields with flowers, firmaments starry –
All damnation of your evil charms.

More treacherous than cold nights’ cover,
More addling than gold of champagne,
Shorter than love of the gypsy lover
Were your awful caresses again…

And there were devastating elation
In that trampling of sanctified things
And that cureless heart’s exaltation --
Bitter passion that like wormwood stings.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, February, 2001