The snowy spring is raging mad,
I look away from the saga;
O, dreadful hour, when she read
The palm extended by Tsouniga.
Into his eyes she aimed her gaze,
There was mockery in her dark eyes,
The row of pearly teeth had blazed,
And I forgot all the days and midnights.
The heart got overflowed with blood,
My homeland memories erasing.
A voice would sing, «With all your being
You’d have to pay me back for love.»
Бушует снежная весна.
Я отвожу глаза от книги...
О, страшный час, когда она,
Читая по руке Цуниги,
В глаза Хозе метнула взгляд!
Насмешкой засветились очи,
Блеснул зубов жемчужный ряд,
И я забыл все дни, все ночи,
И сердце захлестнула кровь,
Смывая память об отчизне...
А голос пел: Ценою жизни
Ты мне заплатишь за любовь!
«The smiles of summer are lost on me, / I find no secrets in winter / But I have observed almost without fail / Three autumns in every year. The first – a holiday madness / Thumbing its nose at summer / Leaves fly, like pages from notebooks / the smell of smoke is incense-sweet / and...»
«The smiles of Summer elude me, / secrets in Winter disappear / but I can catch, almost precisely / three Autumns for each year. The first, all over the place / and it was Summer last night / it’s like a day off. Notebook scraps / of leaves blowing, smoke smells incense-sweet and e...»
«All in the Moscow is flooded with the verses, / Pierced through with awful spears of the rhymes. / Let we abide with them on different courses, / Let the full silence crowns over us, / Let muteness would be the secret symbol / Of them with you, though always seemed – with me, / But you...»
«There was such inexpressible sorrow / in the music in the garden. / The dish of oysters on ice / smelt fresh and sharp of the sea. He said to me ‘I am a true friend!’ / He touched my dress. / There is no passion / in the touch of his hands. This is how one strokes a cat or a bird, ...»