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15 June 1967

616. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Вот стоишь, такая родная…»

In your plain little coat and kerchief, so familiar and dear, you stand, the key to our promised heaven you hold in your empty hand. Let's set out once again together! The hills ever darker grow. Does it matter that we are tired? We've so little left to go. If only we're never parted in the lonely course of our fate, if we only have strength together to reach the Highest Gate! Once again, let us bless each other as we used to, and never fear — they will let us enter together, that's long been decided, dear.

July 1967

617. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Легкокрылым гением ведомы…»

Guided by some lightly winging spirit far beyond the sea the birds have flown. On this dark and bleak November morning, why do you and I stay home alone? Maybe we should follow — take a knapsack, staff and flask, some good and trusted books, and pursue the swiftly flying swallows over woods and meadowlands and brooks? Only those who linger are un able to partake of joys on Earth arrayed. Every turnpike, boundary and barrier we would pass, unseen and unafraid. Surely then, at break of day tomorrow you and I would reach the rosy haze over gleaming rocks and crested breakers, slender palms, and golden blessed days! And as surely, to the fullest measure, we who dared would be repaid indeed for the grain of utter faith within us, for that single mustard seed!

[1960s]

618. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Царскосельские стихи

When I was a boy I used to be your friend, beautiful town of parks and lonely statues, dense lilac groves and empty palaces, — you hadn't yet been visited by grief. Your Gumileff was still a carefree youth, Akhmatova — a schoolgirl and in love, and Innokenti Annensky had not died suffocating at your railroad station; even your Pushkin used to seem to me not dead, but living, not yet grown up, but just another of my noisy classmates. Decades have passed. Impossible to count your losses. All your palaces now lie decaying. All your poets have been killed by silence, bullet, or complete contempt. Alone the name of Pushkin, as of old, still shines above you like a glorious promise — a token of the coming future truth.