[:style=font-size:1em; :](SELECTED POEMS)[:/style:]

                      Translated by Anatol Zukerman

* * *

In the dungeon of wishes and dreams
of this empty city
I raise quiet words
to a pedestal
of correct thinking,
this is so strange…

Time oozes out,
murderous time,
even stones crumble
under its trickle,
but I am a man, no harder than grass,
I have the right to stand on this Earth.
No taller than others,
but just a bit closer to the sky.

* * *

I will fill the void of my rooms
with you,
turn on my midnight lights,
let the moon ring out in the sky!
Time will spare us -
from now on we won’t be day people.
Let the tambourine of silence strike,
we are saved.

The north wind.
A bad omen.
It’s cozy and quiet here,
but there,
in the world of colors and sounds,
on the streaming streets
our pale shadows
look for each other
in vain…


The age of the active sun.
Rays like arrows pierce the soft asphalt
through holes in the sky.
The steam of cotton-like clouds rests on Day City roofs.

I wander around its endless blocks
strewn with the rubbish of dates and expectations,
similar faces of strangers.
I and them are insects upon the squares,
small like a bit of a tea leaf inside a tea glass,
seek understanding in vain.

Citizens of the blown wide bottomless shame
noisily pray, hiding hatred inside their pockets.
I am not afraid to look at the void
of their hurried lives,
in the darkness of their discoteques
and in the silence of hospital cells.

In the noisy City of Day I am only a passerby.
An ignorant tourist I only can stare
at the colorful mess of temptations,
the volcanic swirl of bazaar passions,
the primitive horrors of festive tents.

I can only walk as a homeless stranger,
an alien guest of Her Majesty Night,
in this raving republic of endless mess,
in this City of Day blinded by
its own excessive light.


The upper sea
splashes above
the earthly
and heavenly firmament
eternal like waiting.

The flowing waves of this nebulous sea
enter their souls like secret dreams,
so, the constant music of days and nights
reminds the living

that in the midst of their vanity,
in the quest for feeling and mesuring
the unknown by looking or touching -
a puzzle or business as usual,
the way of living and breathing -

cannot be solved without considering
the waves of the strange upper sea
hidden from the human mind
like the secret allusions of spirits.

But thoughts of the upper sea
fall with the dampness of rain,
settle like snowy salt
and the whisper of winds
in the invisible shells
of the upper sea…



Every day is given two names,
the third is a silent word,
the zero of sounds, a fragile thread,
a cobweb of invisible sense
that shivers from half premonition.

Is that the essence of endless attempts
to decipher elusive shadows,
a misty reflection of movement,
a sign of a vector leading
towards comprehending incompatability
of the bipolar existences,
their purpose of making one
within the third ineffable


A double morning, unclear like a dream,
still quivering in the retina of my eye.
The cool gray steam from gardenias
creeps into the room from the balcony. Silence
is cut by the knife of a second hand,
and in that silence the frost of the bed
is as white as the deck of a scaffold,
and the damp warmth of two bodies
is melting so fast in the morning cool…
Джулия Коронелли
Цукерман-то понял, а я нет. Еле нашла.

Джулия Коронелли  ⋅   12 лет назад   ⋅  >

Vladimir Stockman

Спасибо, Юля!
Оригинальные тексты здесь тоже есть, только по разным разделам распиханы :)

Vladimir Stockman  ⋅   12 лет назад   ⋅  >