I want to wipe this day from your full filled tear sac,
So your vague helpless gaze will ask your future dear spouse:
Where did you see a persian lilac,
These swallows here, and this wooden little house?
Oh, and how often you'll remember me,
The sudden painful yearning of unnamed longings,
And in small towns seek in a twisted dream
For a no name street without your belongings!
At the sight of every random letter, notes,
When a voice sounds eerily like in a fever,
You will be thinking: 'That's she, who promotes,
Who came to help to my deep non-believer.'
Перевод Анны Ахматовой, 1915
© Copyright: Виталий Кармагус, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120081905148
Свидетельство о публикации №120081905148
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