The birch-tree grove
Once in summer, tired to rove,
I went to Mirgorod for honey
And strolling in its suburb sunny
Called on alone birch-tree grove.
It was a small fairy-tale,
White trunks were smart as the fiancees
To fly in whirls of wedding dances
On daisy carpet with web veil.
Horol there round kept to wind,
With faint breeze it being ruffled,
High reed on islands slowly rustled
And all was filled with smell of mint.
The stuffy day was almost over,
Pink-silver light has lain down
On tops of trees as if the crown
And painted stacks among the clover.
White horse was grazing with her foal,
The rooster crew beyond the river,
I was long looking at pink silver
To keep this marvel in my soul.
Mirgorod, 2010
© Copyright: Евгений Гордон, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111022402787
Свидетельство о публикации №111022402787
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