Исповедь, VII - пер. М. Ю. Лермонтова

And he was perished, buried then.
And sound of the ringing bells
Was carried by the wind in steppe
To walls of other dwelling place,
Which was all covered with the grace
And silence of the holy temple...
The image of Madonna there
Was shining in the smoke of the lamps,
As apparitions there were standing
The twelve maids, who were said
To be died long ago; their pray
Was going to heavens high,
And answered to them old shrine,
To their peaceful, sacred song;
And they were singing as one all,
Except the one, as cherub, she
Was nice and fascinating, really.
No one could open her feelings,
Her face was cold, without grievance.
What is the core of women's look?
There was a paradise in eyes, for sure,
But hell was in her heart, at least!
And thoroughly she was there listening
The noise of wind at window,
As if it should bring there the news
About love or death! When doleful
And sad toll of the bells had passed into
The vast church - only a fair scream
Flied up and went down in it.
But those, who have heard, just thought
Or said, that twicely out from
The only one breast such a sound
Couldn't be performed, created, rather!
He took with him her love and life.