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.
«Before a mirror, where there's fog / And turbid sleep, your way / I want to try - where it will lead / And where there is the quay. I see: the mast upon a ship, / And you — on deck, standing... / You — in the smoke of train... the fields / In lament of evening The ravens flying ov...»
«The clock — what time it is? / Rang out. / Hollows of giant eyes, / Watered satin of the dress.. / I just about see you, I guess, / Just about. The neighboring porch / Has turned off the light. / Somewhere they love too much.. / Your face's sketch / Is a scary sight. It's semi-...»
«Through love, through loves, as legends state it / Two kindred souls seek fusion true / Forever more to be related; / Ideal communion –destined, fated. / But fate locks them in combat too. And in this combat one soul’s fires / Always burns with love more pure. / It suffers more, to ...»
«Hush, my little sleepy-head. / Mama’s gone — to Paris fled. / Ah-Ah-Ah, please don’t you weep. / There were reasons, go to sleep. / Over there beneath the couch / Crawls a sleek and shiny roach. / Where’s his wife? In Paris, too? / No, she isn’t; that’s not true. / Life h...»