Let poet be blamed unfairly
By mocking, mad society as well,
But nothing will prevent him really,
And no one will hear my answer.
I have been living to this day for myself,
My song is racing so free in space,
As a wild bird in the empty desert,
As a boat, floating on lake.
And what's the interest to the high court,
When you are sitting before me,
When my hand's mystically warmed
By your hand, such a sudden gift.
When I'm spending highest hours
With you, oh, maiden of the bliss,
Without any mark of suffering,
Without turning eyes of this.
Пускай поэта обвиняет... пер. М. Ю. Лермонтова
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111062800677
Свидетельство о публикации №111062800677
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