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.
«I will be silenced soon!.. If on the tragic day, / The strings would pensively begin to play; / If adolescents, sitting quietly, immersed, / Began to marvel at my passion’s madness; / If only you, surrendering to sadness, / In silence mumbled melancholy verse / And loved the way my ard...»
«This time’s the final time, my friend, / I enter through your door. / Love’s quiet hour has been spent / And now, there is no more. / Don’t wait for me all night and mope, / Held captive by the deceitful hope, / Don’t burn your candles, in a daze, / Til morning rays.»
« My friend, I have forgotten all that’s passed, / The passion of my youth was rather brief. / Don’t ask about the things that didn’t last, / Or how I felt in the times of joy or grief, / Or what I loved, on how I was betrayed. / I may not know true happiness today: / But...»
«Don’t covet goods of other beings — / My Goodness, You’ve commanded so; / The limits of my will You know — / Am I to manage tender feelings? / I wish not to offend my friend. / His village I do not desire, / And for his steer I don’t aspire, / I’m gazing at it all, content:...»