Mother, blind, stares in the window;
Answering spring her wrinkles laugh.
But her heart is dedicated to ache,
With growing pain it beats in the sun.
We need neither light nor beauty!
We need no blessings from outside!
How my son in his distant exile
Counts the deathly hours in his cell.
Слепая мать глядит в окно,
Весне морщинками смеется.
Но сердце, горю отдано,
Больней на солнце бьется.
Не надо света и красы!
Не надо вешней благодати!
Считает мертвые часы
Мой сын в далеком каземате.
«It took place at the sea, in the foam of the ocean, / Where the carriage of city rarely arrives. / In the tower of a palace the queen was playing Chopin, / And to sound of Chopin the page fell in love. It was all very simple, it was all very dear: / The page asked him to cut pomegranate in ...»
«This day of spring is hot and golden — / The citys blinded by the sun! / Im me again! I am emboldened! / Im in love, happy and Im young! The soul sings and bursts for the fields and / I come to strangers and say "hey." / What spaciousness I feel! What freedom! / What songs and flowers...»
«All joy — in the past, irretrievable and evanescent / But in the present - prosperity and despair. / The heart is tired and thirsts in fire at sunset / Of love and passion — its lured by freedom from care. The heart is tired of prosperitys narrow confines, / Its in despair, in chains, ...»
«Champagne in a lily! Champagne in a lily! / With health and with wisdom it sparkles and shines! / A shot of Mignon with one of Escamillio / Champagne in a lily — a sacred wine. Champagne in a lily bursting and sparkling — / The wine contained in a flowers cup. / I glory in rapture the...»