I'm plowing dryness of the prairic ocean
With wagon, drowning in the greens like boat in waves,
Through swaying meadows where flowers pushing
My boat betwixt' wild grasses' purple bays.
It darkens; no mound, no road is in the sight.
Is there any star in sky for me to follow?
Like Seeing Eye; like distant dawn; like sparkling cloud -
It's Akkerman, which glows in Dnestr, free from sorrow.
So stilly; silence rings; let's stop.
The wings of cranes are flapping in the height;
A blade is trifled by a mop,
And there
An adder's cutting through the prairie night.
At such a silent cushion I would even hear
A voice of Homeland;
still, no call would reach my heart.
The Plains of Akkerman
© Copyright: Евгений Викторович Демидов, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114043006495
Свидетельство о публикации №114043006495
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