I don’t like flowers – they remind of
The funerals and weddings, festive balls,
And fancy dining tables above all…
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Only the timeless roses – charming, light,
Which brought me joy since childhood, somehow
Remained my sole inheritance till now,
Like sounds of Mozart, like the dark of night.
Я не люблю цветы — они напоминают
Мне похороны, свадьбы и балы,
Для ужина накрытые столы
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Но лишь предвечных роз простая красота,
Та, что всегда была моей отрадой с детства,
Осталась и досель единственным наследством,
Как звуки Моцарта, как ночи чернота.
«Fire and rope, bullet and axe — / These faithful servants at our backs. / In every drop there slept a flood, / From every stone a mountain lloomed. / And in each trampled twig / Black-handed forests sighed and moaned. Falsehood gorged itself from our plates, / Bells sounded only ...»
«The fire and the page, the hewed hairs and the swords, / The grains and the millstone, the whispers and the clatter — / God saves all that — especially the words / Of love and pity, as His only way to utter. The harsh pulse pounds and the blood torrent whips, / The spade knocks even...»
«The fire and the page, the hewed hairs and the swords, / The grains and the millstone, the whispers and the clatter — / God saves all that — especially the words / Of love and pity, as His only way to utter. The harsh pulse pounds and the blood torrent whips, / The spade knocks evenl...»
«I’ve set my folks on a vacation, / From friends I’ve drifted far apart, / And now the permanent dejection / Submerses nature and the heart. Inside this lodge, we’re left alone. / The woods are dreary and remote. / And sprouts of grass, like in the song, / Have overgrown each path ...»