I raise my glass to airships Astra,
To everything that I am blamed for,
To luxurious alms and asthma,
And to bitter St Pete’s shore.
To the music of pines in Savoy,
To the gas smell of Champs Elysees,
To a rose on the seat of Rolls-Royce,
And oil paintings of Musee d’Orsay.
I drink to the Biscay wave,
And a jug of Alpine cream,
To women, red-headed and brave,
And to far-born quinine.
I drink, but I still have to choose,
Which of the two is fine,
Spumante to be amused,
Or Palace of Popes’ wine.
Translation - Osip Mandelstam
© Copyright: Королева-Пенская, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123122000776
Свидетельство о публикации №123122000776
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