He snatched my red handkerchief
on June twenty-third, my birthday.
He hasn’t given it back,
acts like nothing happened;
just triumphs in silence as if he were King David,
the Lord’s belovèd. He’s holed up now,
as in a citadel, incommunicado,
in the white-walled cool of his room
from the August heat.
I’m going there,
I’ll stand right in his doorway,
demand it back!
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!»