Butterfly – Joseph Brodsky


To tell, you're dead?
But you only lived for a day.
How much sadness in a joke
Creator! barely
I can say
"Lived" - the unity of the date
birthday and when you
in my handful
crumbled, me
confused subtract
one of two quantities
within a day.


Then, what are the days for us -
nothing. Only
nothing. They are not prikolesh,
eyes and food
won't do: they
on a white background,
not having a body,
invisible. days,
they like you; rather,
that can weigh
reduced tenfold
one of the days?


To tell, that does not have
you? But what
in my hand is so similar
with you? and color -
not the fruit of nothingness.
On whose tip
and this is how the paints are put?
Hardly i,
muttering lump
words, alien color,
have imagined that
palette could.


On your wings
pupils, eyelashes -
beauty Does, birds -
snatches someone,
tell me, it's faces,
portrait of volatile?
Which, tell, your case
particles, grains
It presents still life:
of things, whether fruit?
and even fishing
stretched out the trophy.


maybe, you are a landscape,
and, taking a magnifying glass,
I found a group
nymph, dance, beach.
Light you there, like day?
il there dejectedly,
like at night? and shone
what is in it
vzoshlo on horizon?
whose it figures?
Tell, with which nature
he was made?


I think, What are you -
and that, and this:
stars, faces, subject
in you traits.
Who was the jeweler,
what, not frowning eyebrow,
He struck in miniature
them that world,
that drives us crazy,
It takes us in a pincer,
where are you, as a thought about a thing,
we are the thing itself.


Tell, why pattern
this was Duden
you just have a day
in the land of lakes,
whose amalgam is for the future
store space?
And you take away the chance
such a short time
to get into the net,
flutter in the palm of your hand,
at the time of the chase
plenity zrachok.


You do not answer me
not because
shyness and
with evils, and no
then, you're dead.
Alive, dead -
but every creature of God
as a sign of kinship
granted for voice
communication, singing:
extension moments,
minutes, of the day.


And you - you are deprived
this pledge.
But, arguing strongly,
that's better: on
hell do be in heaven
in debt, in the register.
Do not crush Well, if a
your century, your weight
dumbness worthy:
sound is also a burden.
Disembodied, than time,
you silently.


Without feeling, not
lived to fear,
you curl lighter than dust
on the flowerbed, outside
Similar to prison
with its suffocation
the past with the future,
and that's why
when you fly to the meadow
wanting to feed,
takes shape
the air itself suddenly.


So does the pen,
sliding on the surface
lined notebook,
not knowing about the
the fate of his line,
where wisdom, heresy
mingled, but the trust
hand tremors,
in whose fingers the speech beats
completely mute,
not removing dust from the flower,
but the weight off the shoulders.


such beauty
and the term is so short,
connecting, guess
crooked mouth:
does not make clearer,
that, in fact,
the world was created without a purpose,
and if with her,
then the goal is not us.
Each entomologist,
there are no needles for light
and there is for darkness.


Say goodbye to you?
as a form of day?
there are people, whose minds
cuts shingles
oblivion; but look:
therefore to blame
only that, that behind
they have not days
with a bed for two,
not dreams dremuchogo,
not the past - but clouds
your sisters!


You are better, than nothing.
Verney: you are closer
and more visible. But inside
one hundred percent
you related to it.
In your flight
it reached the flesh;
and that's why
you are in a hustle and bustle
worth a look
as light barrier
between him and me.


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Alexander Pushkin