Authors‎ > ‎Greg Afinogenov‎ > ‎


(Ilya Ehrenburg, 1964-66)

This fall is not a time of year,
But a time of life. Unbearable grows
Its barrenness, its forced serenity:
A tailor's measure for a ghostly dream.
Though proverbs and worries remain the same,
They are sometimes too much for me.
Words grow fewer, meetings more rare.
And suddenly I mutter to myself
About fall, about longing. O God,
I would make it, but my strength is gone.
I've lived so much, but still I did not live,
I did not see, I did not love enough.
* * *

Не время года эта осень,
А время жизни. Голизна,
Навязанный покой несносен:
Примерка призрачного сна.
Хоть присказки, заботы те же,
Они порой не по плечу.
Всё меньше слов, и встречи реже.
И вдруг себе я бормочу
Про осень, про тоску. О боже,
Дойти бы, да не хватит сил.
Я столько жил, а всё не дожил,
Не доглядел, не долюбил.