(Mikhail Lermontov)
A whitish sail, far in the distance
Amid the blue haze of the sea,
What is the aim of your persistence
In being your land's an absentee?
The waves are playing, the wind is roaring
The mast is bending with a screech..
It's not for happiness he's soaring
Runs not from happiness's reach!
Above the azure stream of waters
He's lolling in the golden bliss,
But that's a storm what rebel's thought is,
As though the storm would bring the peace.
1 March 2015
THE SAIL
© Copyright: Дмитрий Александрович Гаранин, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115030310161
Свидетельство о публикации №115030310161
Рецензии