Speaking In Tongues
Guided by Voices
Translated by Boris Leyvi
* * *
Golden gleams of a droplet would shine on the sun like a bait,
never-ending designs would produce on the sand, at the shore.
The Springtime be aware, but I do not know what for
something, on the inside, breathes watchfully and palpitates.
Yet I'll learn not to fear the appointments, ever deduced,
Yet the loss, if not now, will wake me with bruises and hurts.
Pray, you grant me an amber, — a gift that I swear I won't lose,
And no words do I want: for the ages I loathe the words.
Speak your mind, simply chatter, — it'll happen all over again:
butterfly-like, newborn a sensation of wakening soul.
The diaphanous wall moves at us in an infinite span,
in the Spring-newlywed, in the amber's gold-glittering mould.
Cornered over the land in its green and unstoppable boat,
us, the beardless new crew, Spring'll forever forsake.
Time will snatch our lives, and like flies, in the resin we'll float,
and someone will our souls for beads of the amber mistake.
* * *
I do not carve the poles, nor do I forge the rail,
Utter not in verse, not even in prose
And your feeble eye pierce not with my nail,
Like a sharpened thorn, pretending to be a rose.
Got you now, genius — I don't tell you,
Smile the world! — not a self-made comment.
I'm a hermit — hushed, inconspicuous failure,
Inappropriate for the place and the moment.
In that cell — my body — as you dare name,
I'm a gnome bystander, your old, tired hero.
All I do — the floor with chalked squares frame,
Granting each square a zero.
Aw, you splatter, aw, — after you have learned
All the squares, the truth you have got,
Thinking you have perfectly discerned...
Question mark — dash — exclamation — dot.
* * *
Once, a remembrance I will grant
To all these things of current being:
To tartness of the grass and plant
And to the cloudy summer fleeing,
To eyeless lengthiness of the rain,
The cloak that's drenched and, till the leave,
The time and over you'd remain,
Palpating through the twisted sleeve,
Your lips in quiver, with a sting,
And to the grip of starry hub
Upon the exit from the swing,
To sprite that seemed to sally up...
You were so handsome and so gloomed,
A gist of a Romantic lyre,
And flowers in the clouds bloomed,
And kamikazes set on fire.