When habit, like a cold, indifferent snake,
Crawls in to warm itself inside the heart,
When suns go dark and earth is left to ache,
And food has lost its spicy, fiery part;
When wine forgets the taste of lips I knew,
And silk of your soft hair is not a wonder,
When I grow cold and harsh, forgetting you,
While sitting in a tavern, torn asunder;
When the enchanting warmth of your soft breast
Becomes just sweaty flesh and nothing more,
And even nights of love we haven't guessed
Will seem like nothing but a tedious chore;
Then I shall die...
To rise and live anew,
And to bring back the faded love for you!
But: When angels finally descend for me,
I do not know what hue their wings will bear.
Will I have time to recall those lips, and see
If I can warm my soul with what is there?
There... past the threshold... where no clocks will wait...
Indifferent Snake Привычка, мой перевод на английс
© Copyright: Виталий Шматалюк, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126061305157
Свидетельство о публикации №126061305157
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