Glory to you, inconsolable pain!
The grey-eyed king died yesterday.
The autumn evening was quiet and red.
My husband came home and calmly said:
“You know, he’d been carried from the hunt.
Near an old oak his body was found.
Poor queen, she is so young and kind
And her hair got white for one night.”
He found his pipe on the chimney
And, thinking of his job, went away.
I will awake my daughter at night.
And look into her grey eyes in twilight.
But the poplars are rustling over the window:
“You have no your grey-eyed king now”.
Grey-eyed king. Ahmatova. Translation
© Copyright: Лика Орлова, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103031901439
Свидетельство о публикации №103031901439
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