Ring, sing, oblivion preventing,
The words "fifteen years old" in my soul.
Why, did I grow up and become big?
Nothing consoles.
Just yesterday, into green grove of birches
Free, in the morning I ran away.
Just yesterday I frolicked without hairdo,
Just yesterday!
Spring ringing of the far-away belltowers
Told me: "Run and sit and lie!"
And every step frolicking was allowed,
And every cry!
What is ahead? What failure lies before me?
In all deceit, all is forbidden.
Thus, crying, with dear childhood I parted
At age fifeen.
Звенят-поют, забвению мешая,
В моей душе слова: «пятнадцать лет».
О, для чего я выросла большая?
Спасенья нет!
Ещё вчера в зелёные берёзки
Я убегала, вольная, с утра.
Ещё вчера шалила без причёски,
Ещё вчера!
Весенний звон с далёких колоколен
Мне говорил: «Побегай и приляг!»
И каждый крик шалунье был позволен,
И каждый шаг!
Что впереди? Какая неудача?
Во всём обман и, ах, на всём запрет!
— Так с милым детством я прощалась, плача,
В пятнадцать лет.
«The immortelle is dry and rosy. Overhead, / The clouds seem misshapen in the sky. / The leafage of the only oak nearby / Is colorless and thin still as of yet. The midnight hour’s lit with sunset’s embers. / How great I feel inside my narrow cell! / Today, the birds converse with me a...»
«I concealed all my worry inside me, / And gazed casually, calm and composed. / She sat down, like a porcelain idol, / In a long predetermined pose. It’s my daily routine to be merry / But attentiveness takes all my might… / Or did indolence now overwhelm me / After so many scented M...»
«I hear the always-sad voice of the oriole / and I salute the passing of delectable summer. / With the hissing of a snake the scythe cuts down / the stalks, one pressed hard against another. And the hitched-up skirts of the slender reapers / fly in the wind like holiday flags. Now if only / ...»
«I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice, / And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear / In the sickle's serpentine hiss / Cutting the corn's ear tightly pressed to ear. And the short skirts of the slim reapers / Fly in the wind like holiday pennants, / The clash of joyful cymbals, an...»