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Сообщение от Pavel

realized?

Paul, no ... I live in the province ..
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Paul, can the spiritual? What we're all about trade? Do you mind?

Joseph Brodsky

ROMAN LETTER TO A FRIEND

              (Of Martial)

             *
Today is windy and the waves are cresting.
   Soon the autumn, everything will change in the district.
Changing the colors of the touching, Postum,
   costume changes than a friend.
Virgin flatters to a certain limit -
   on the elbow or knee can not go.
How joyful is the perfect out of the body:
   or impossible to embrace, no cheating!

                *
I'm sending you, Postum, these books
   What is the capital? Soft trail? Sleep is not hard?
How's Caesar? What he was doing? All the intrigue?
   All the intrigue, they probably did gluttony.

I'm sitting in my garden, lit the lamp.
   Neither the girlfriend nor the workers, or acquaintances.
Instead of the weak and strong world -
   except in accordance with buzzing insects.

                *
Here is a merchant from Asia. Explanatory
   He was a merchant - the business, but noticeable.
Died quickly: a fever. On trading
   He sailed for here, not for it.

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Next to him - a legionnaire, a coarse quartz.
   He was in the battles of the Empire glorified.
Many times to kill him! but died an old man.
   Even here, there, Postum, rules.

                *
Let indeed, Postum, the chicken is a bird
   but harebrained enough grief.
If you fell in the Empire to be born,
   better to live in a remote province near the sea.

And far from Caesar, and the blizzard.
   Fawn does not need to trot, make haste.
Say that all the governors - a thief?
   But the thief to me a mile than the leech.

                *
This downpour to wait with you, Hetero,
   I agree, but let's not trade:
take sesterces from covering the body
   anyway, that the demand for roofing shingles.

Occur, you say? But where's the pool?
   To leave a puddle I did not happen.
Here you will find yourself of a husband,
   He will proceed on the bedspread.

                *
Here we lived more than half.
   As I said before the tavern, the old servant:
"We're looking back, we see only the ruins."
   View, of course, a very barbaric, but true.

Was in the mountains. Now busy with a large bouquet.
   'll Find a large pitcher, pour water to them ...
How is it in Libya, my Postum - or wherever?
   Is is still fighting for?

                *

Remember, Postum, the governor of my sister?
   Thin, but with full legs.
You slept with her yet ... Recently became a priestess.
   Priestess, Postum, and communicates with the gods.
Come, popem wine, ate bread.
   Or plums. Tell me the news.
You will lay in the garden under the clear sky
   and tell you what are called constellations.

                *

Soon, Postum, a friend of yours who loves addition,
   duty to his long-time subtraction of pay.
Take out from under the pillow savings
   there a little, but enough for the funeral.
Go to his black mare
   in a town house hetero our wall.
Give them a price for which love,
   so that for the same price and mourned.

                *
Greenery of laurel, reaching to tremble.
   Door wide open, dusty window.
Chair abandoned, left behind a couch.
   Tissue, absorbed the midday sun.
Pont noise behind the black fence of pines.
   Someone's boat with the wind fighting off Cape.
Cracked on the bench - Pliny the Elder.
   Blackbird chirping in the cypress shock of hair.

Mart 1972