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.
«Evening dimmed, like ourselves charmed / With this first warmth of the spring. / Stirring alive, Arbat was alarmed; / With sympathetic tenderness, the kind / Gale touched us with a tired wing. / In our souls, raised on a fairy tale, / Sorrow quietly cried for past things. He came — s...»
«Near is the meek image of the dark chapel / Where the organ does weep! / Alien to me is earthly joy. / I'm Angelique. Quiet singing in unison sounds, / Unclear are the windows, it seems, / Elegant vaults have taken control / Of my life like dreams. My sight in childhood slipped away th...»
«Like in a mirror, there's shade in the heart / I'm bored alone — and with men... / Slowly drags the light of the day / From four till seven! / Everybody is cruel in the dusk, / Don't go to people — they'll lie. / Fingers have wound into a knot / The kerchief. I want to cry. / On...»
«Eggs on a plate warmed the soul with delight / And ringing of bells. / What is more radiant than Easter in April, / People, pray tell? / Rays are caressing the grass, from the street / Phrases and words... / Quietly I wander from porch to the barn, / Measuring boards. / Waves of East...»