Дань уважения Константину Дмитриевичу Бальмонту

Быть может, предок мой был честным палачом:

My ancestor might be a master of beheading:
I see the sunlit poppies bloody vision spreading,
And crimson, full of threat carnations,
Bloodthirsty roses sending cunning invitations.
I see the water lilies over the waves so faint,
Bloodstained with moonlit spooky paint.
Their bleak being they have lost, forgotten,
The noble crimson they’ve begotten,
With their sweet fear in the silence frozen,
They form the lips to kiss the chosen.
My blood is singing, making every muscle twitch,
As hordes of ghosts are trying to bewitch
My heart; they’re saying - kiss us quick,
We’ll make your way to Sabbath slick!
The greedy lips want to declare:
There’s no exile to everything we dare,
You need us… Everywhere we dwell.
Who can break our moonshine spell?
We’ll show you every abyss of delight,
Birth, Death, the secrets of eternal light.
My blood is singing… Midst my dream
Their sounds unite with what they seem.
Too close is my new mythic cleft,
Too far are those who I have lost and left;
And the unknown is singing me a lullaby,
The haze of fire ‘s passing by.
The blood enchants my heart and brain,
It opens the Infinity of bliss and pain;
And stabbed by ghostly light
The poppies laugh and bleed…
My ancestor, I’m ready to succeed!