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[1930]

642. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). Окончено стихотворенье

At last the poem is completed. The soul is void, the soul is light. The hand that holds the pen is shaking as from a giddiness of flight. The world of phantom, barely seen, swaying, recedes into the gloom; out of the darkness Earth arises steadfast and ponderous as doom. As only on a sheet of paper a mark, unsure and indistinct, reflects the light which fell from heaven in smallest drops of drying ink. And now the heart beats faster, weary, as if beyond some starry goal running across the plains of heaven the body too had chased the soul.

[1960s]

643. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Стихи о звезде

Burn in the foggy whiteness, burn, burn in the fog of icy skies, lighting the murky twilight stillness with your bright body as it flies. And soaring from the crowded heaven, enter my crowding prison walls through the slit window, like a bird, to visit me when evening falls. Soaring above decay and coldness, incomprehensible, though near, glide, circling from the vaulted ceiling down to the dusty corners here, that — even for the briefest moment! and though I burn my fingers through — I am allowed, in sweetest torment, to touch the body that is you.

[1960s]

644. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk…»

Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk, in which we live so close we gasp for breath not guessing the beginning or the end, dreaming of happiness which conquers death. This indestructible, poor mortal land! But close your eyes: another lies beyond — A world in which you are a midnight star immobile in its speechlessness and bright, — a world in which I am a limpid pool whose face reflects your ever-shining light. Above this world, that other will appear — that's quite transparent, and quite simply clear.