Clouds

Поэтический перевод произведения «Облака» авторства Ирины Крымовой

Oh, my cloudy clouds, you are taken by air,
In the heavenly blue there’s no refuge of yours,
Outcast, as you are, you will shed me a tear,
Having hidden with mantle the Earth’s light source.

The foul weather of gray above ground is swelling,
And with chillness of blue it wants vast to enshroud,
And the clouds make a dome, having built up for dwelling,
For hot gleaming a hundred of airy crowd.

The Earth quietens down, and the light jets are streaming,
And monotonous whisper of foliage is heard,
Having heard Earth’s behest in a prayerful screaming,
Spread apart are the clouds by wind-driven sword.

The azure will be swooped by the swanlike of clouds,
Building castles, unfolding the fairy-tale strath,
And the flock will sail softly by as windy shrouds,
Ploughing tracklessly their familiar path.

The commotion of sky dwellers is never ending,
They are restless, but also from heavenly height,
Gazing at the Earth’s beauties, they’re firmly portending,
That to good they’re making a heavenly flight.