hills – Joseph Brodsky

Together they loved
sit on the side of a hill.
From there they could see
church, gardens, prison.
From there they saw
overgrown pond.
Throwing sandals in the sand,
they sat together.

He put his arms around his knees,
they looked at the clouds.
Down at the cinema crippled
waiting for the truck.
Shimmered on the slope of the bank
near the brick bushes.
Over the pink spire of the bank
crow curled, shouting.

Cars were driving in the center
to the bathhouse on three bridges.
The bell was tinkling in the church:
the electrician got married there.
And here on the hill it was quiet,
the wind refreshed them.
Not a whistle around, not a shout.
Only the mosquito buzzed.

The grass was trampled there,
where they always sat.
Black spots everywhere -
left their food.
Cows are always this place
wiped with their tongue.
Everyone knew it,
but they didn't know about.

Cigarette butts, spike and fork
were covered with sand.
Blackened in the distance the bottle,
Hearing barely a moo,
they went down to the bushes
and dispersed in silence -
as we sat there.


They descended on different slopes,
happened to step sideways.
The bushes in front of them closed up
and parted again.
Boots slipped in the grass,
water glittered between the stones.
One reached the path,
another at the same moment of the pond.

It was the evening of several weddings
(it seems, there were two).
A dozen shirts and dresses
loomed below in the grass.
The sunset was already abating
and the clouds beckoned to me.
Steam from the ground rose,
and the bell kept ringing.

One, grunting, stumbling,
another, smoking a cigarette -
that evening they went down
on different hillsides.
Descended on different slopes,
the space grew between them.
But scary, at the same time
the air shook their cry.

Suddenly the bushes burst open,
the bushes suddenly burst open.
As if they were awake,
and their sleep was full of torment.
The bushes burst open with a howl,
as if the earth opened up.
Before each there were two,
iron in hand moving.

One was met with an ax,
and the blood flowed by the clock,
another from a broken heart
died instantly himself.
The killers dragged them into the grove
(blood flowed down their hands)
and threw it into the overgrown pond.
And there they met again.


Still making their way to the touch
to the seats at the table grooms,
and terrible news to the square
the shepherds have already brought.
The evening dawn shone
herds of thick clouds.
The cows stood in the bushes
and licked the blood greedily.

The electrician was running down the slope
and his brother-in-law is behind him in the bushes.
The bride downstairs is pissed off
stood alone in flowers.
Old woman, covered with a blanket,
twisted the braid in front of her,
and a drunken wedding followed
rushed after them to the hill.

The branches were cracking under them,
they rushed, delirious.
The cows in the bushes were mooing
and quickly descended to the pond.
And suddenly everyone saw clearly
(the heat reigned around):
blackened in green duckweed,
like a door to darkness, hole.


Who will raise them from there,
get from the bottom of the pond?
Death, like water above them,
they have water in their stomachs.
Death is already in every word,
in the stem, wrapped around the pole.
Death in blood licked,
death in every cow.

Death in vain
(as if looking for thieves).
Will henceforth be red
the milk of these cows.
In red, red carriage
with red, red paths,
in red, red can -
red drink children.

Death in voices and gazes.
The collar is full of death. —
So the city will pay them:
death is hard for them.
Need to raise them, would raise.
But how to overcome melancholy:
if the murder on the wedding day,
red to be milk.


Death is not a nightmare skeleton
with a long braid in dew.
Death is that bush,
in which we all stand.
This is not a funeral cry,
and also not a black bow.
Death is a crow's cry,
black - to the red bank.

Death is all machines,
this is a prison and a garden.
Death is all men,
their ties are hanging.
Death is glass in the bath,
in the church, in houses - in a row!
Death is everything, what's with us -
for they will not see.

Death is our strength,
this is our work and sweat.
Death is our veins,
our soul and flesh.
We won't go out on the hill anymore,
there are lights in our houses.
It is not we who do not see them -
they do not see us.


roses, geranium, hyacinths,
peonies, lilac, iris -
on their terrible zinc coffin -
roses, geranium, narcissus,
lilies, as if from basma,
their smell is spicy and wild,
levkoy, orchids, asters,
roses and a sheaf of carnations.

Please take them to the Breg,
entrust them to heaven.
Throw them into the river, into the river,
she will carry to the woods.
To the black forest channels,
to dark forest houses,
to the dead woodlands,
into the distance - to the Baltic hills.


The hills are our youth,
we drive her, not knowing.
Hills are hundreds of streets,
the hills are a host of ditches.
The hills are pain and pride.
The hills are the end of the earth.
The higher you ascend,
the more you see them in the distance.

The hills are our misery.
The hills are our love.
The hills are a cry, sobbing,
go away, come again.
Light and immensity of pain,
our longing and fear,
our dreams and sorrow,
all this is in their bushes.

The hills are eternal glory.
Always put on display
the right to our suffering.
The hills are above us.
Their tops are always visible,
visible in the midst of pitch darkness.
Close, yesterday and now
we are moving along the slope.
Death is only plains.
Life is hills, hills.

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Alexander Pushkin