Ever since St. Agrafena’s day,
He has kept my crimson shawl.
He gloats like King David, enthralled.
His frosty cell has walls of gray,
And no one talks to him at all.
I’ll go to his door and stand in his way,
“Return my shawl to me!” I’ll say.
Со дня Купальницы-Аграфены
Малиновый платок хранит.
Молчит, а ликует, как царь Давид.
В морозной келье белы стены,
И с ним никто не говорит.
Приду и стану на порог,
Скажу: «Отдай мне мой платок!»
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