Lyrics Иосиф Бродский - Новые станцы к Августе

I

On Tuesday, September began.
The rain poured all night.
All the birds flew away.
Only I am so lonely and brave,
that he did not even look after them.
The deserted sky is destroyed,
the rain draws together a gap.
I do not need the south.

II
Here, buried alive,
I wander in the twilight.
My boot tore the field,
rages on me Thursday,
but the cut stems climb up,
almost without feeling pain.
And the willow branches,
stabbing a pinkish cape
in the swamp, where protection is removed,
mutter, tumbling down
nest of a rogue.

III
Knock and squelch, bubble, rustle.
I will not speed up my step.
The only spark you know
geese, carcasses.
Frozen palm pressed to his hip,
I delirious from the hill to the hillock,
without memory, with one kind of sound,
soles on the stones.
Bending to a dark stream,
I look with fright.

IV
Well, let the meaningless shadow
in my eyes, and let the dampness soak in
to me in a beard, and a cap - накренень -
crowning this twilight, reflected
as a feature that the soul
do not go -
I do not aspire to
for a visor, for a button, for a gate,
for his own boot, for his sleeve.
Only the heart suddenly clogged, finding,
that somewhere I sputter: cold
shaking it, hitting me in the chest.

V
Mumbles before me the water,
and the frost grows in the mouth of the mouth.
Otherwise, do not say: what can
be not a person, but a place where a cliff
Happened?
And my laughter is crooked
and the gloomy gat is disturbing.
And the darkness of the rain crumbles.
And my second image, like a man,
runs from the reddish eyelids,
jumps on the wave
under the pines, then under the willows,
interferes with other twins,
as never to get lost to me.

VI
Knock and squish, chew the rotten bridge.
Let the whores, surrounding the churchyard,
suck out the paint cross.
But even this way the tip of the grass
the swamp does not add blue ...
Whiskers,
raging among dense foliage,
invade your roots in the depths!
And there, in the earth, like here, in my chest
all ghosts and dead budi,
and let them run, cutting off the corner,
on stubble to the deserted villages
and waving fleeting days,
how hats scared!

VII
Here on the hills, among the empty skies,
among roads leading only to the forest,
life recedes from itself
and looks with amazement at the forms,
rustling around. And roots
clinging to the boot, snorting,
and all the lights in the village go out.
And now I'm delirious in nobody's land
and in Non-existence I ask for a lease,
and the wind tears my heat out of my hands,
and splashes over me with a hollow water,
and twists the dirt of a footpath tape.

VIII
Yes, it seems there really is not me,
I'm somewhere on the sidelines, overboard.
Stubble and the stubble climbs up,
like the hair on the body is dead,
and over the nest, in the grass stretched,
effervescence of ants.
Nature is straightened out with the former,
as usual. But her face at the same time -
let it be flooded with sunset light -
involuntarily becomes evil.
And with all the five senses - five -
I push from the forest:
No, Lord! in the eyes of the veil,
and I will not turn into a judge.
And if for a disaster his
I'm still not with me,
thou, O God, cut off my hand,
as a Finn for theft.

IX
A friend of Polydeuces, everything merged into a spot.
My lips will not break free.
Here I stand in the open coat,
and the world flows into the eyes through a sieve,
through a sieve of misunderstanding.
I'm deaf. I, God, are blind.
I can not hear the words, and exactly twenty watts
the moon burns. Let it be so. In Heaven
I will not lay a course between the stars and drops.
Let the echo here spreads through the forests
not a song, but a cough.

X
September. Night. The whole society is a candle.
But the shadow still looks over his shoulder
in my sheets and digs into the roots
ragged. And your ghost in the passage
rustles and gurgles with water
and smiles with a star
in the open doors jerky.

The light darkens over me.
Water tightens the trail.

XI
Yes, the heart tears ever stronger to you,
and because of it - all further.
And in my voice more and more false.
But you consider it a duty to fate,
for debt to fate, not requiring blood
and the injuring needle is blunt.
And if you wait for a smile - wait!
I'll smile. Smile above yourself
grave durability of the roof
and it is easier to smoke over the chimney.

XII
Euterpe, are you? Where did I go, eh?
And what's under me: water? grass?
process of lyrically heather,
curved such a horseshoe,
that happiness is seen,
such that, perhaps,
how to go on the amble from the canter
so fast and breath does not knock,
you do not know neither you nor Calliope.