Текст песни Иосиф Бродский - Перед памятником А. С. Пушкину в Одессе

Yakov Gordin

     Not by trading wandering business,
     scat
     his miserable trash,
     one morning
     with a heavy taste in the mouth
     I went ashore in a foreign port.

     It was winter.
     Grainy snow is a sec on the cheek, but the earth
     was black for white grain.
     The howler howled in all the bad ways.
     Back in the ceremonial night.
     I moved away.

     Oh, the cities of the earth at the time of the dawn!
     The hotels are dead. The motionless bowls,
     blindness of eyes
     blind goddesses.
     Through you pass neudreno naked,
     until the state rumbled anthem.

     Thick fog
     flipped the neighborhoods like a thick novel.
     Heavy ice covered with lime,
     as the language of the mainland,
     gray, and, like stains of the ceiling,
     there were clouds.

     And on the insurgent in its nightmarish growth
     That ladder, like that sailor,
     as that small town,
     up, scraping
     with a fingernail railing, cheekbones silver
     tear like a fish, I dragged myself.

     One as a finger,
     as in the mortar of winter space pestle,
     there the apostle is shaking the change of places
     back to the fatherland and face to that,
     in whose and did not happen fringe
     step forward to him.

     From cast iron
     he was sculpted like a plowman
     the voice said: "Khan
     Movements! & quot; - and from that end
     the land was punctuated by the sound of a bells
     with a piece of lead.

     Suppressing the outwardly distant,
     creating before him his horizontal,
     in the mist of a chenille, exposing steel.
     And I felt like a boot - a grimace,
     as a marching one-two,
     longing for kinship.

     Go and he
     here substituting a cheekbone for aquilon,
     figuring out how to get out,
     in the same - who knows - early,
     and also felt that the matter was rubbish,
     no matter where you look.

     And he, you see,
     here waited for something that can not be waited for
     from life: will. This grace,
     accessible waves, the god of Russian fields
     hid from us, all the others having fallen asleep,
     zane - jealous.

     The Greek on feliuk went to Piraeus
     empty. And a flock of ghouls
     fell out of shameful doors,
     as black steam,
     to the boulevard memorized by heart.
     And I was there, and I puked in the snow.

     Our gentle South,
     where the heart dropped first the pack,
     there is an instrument of power, the main sound
     whose in the universe - not forty magpies,
     designed for a succession of centuries,
     but the clank of chains.

     And it was cast
     from their waste, one who has not sailed away,
     The one whose daring spoke
     "Farewell, free element & quot; mouth,
     to dissolve forever in prison latitudes,
     where there is no gate.

     There are no lines in our sad language
     more desperate and more contrary
     yourself written, and then by hand
     hundred years copied. So runs on
     beach in Lanzheron behind the wave wave,
     the earth is true.

             1969 (?), 70 (?)