I remember you so rarely...
Your fate doesn't mean something to me.
But a small snatch of feel hardly could I take
From my soul, when we are to meet...
I shall pass by your red house, as with aim,
It is situated above the muddy stream...
I'm aware, that I am in anxiety,
While you are existing in peace.
Though you fail to bend over my lips,
Kissing me, asking love with a verse;
Though you didn't throw to eternity
All the inner temptation, lanquor -
I would like to conjure on my poor fate -
In the view of this blue and nice evening...
And I long, forebode of the next day,
When again there will be our meeting...
О тебе вспоминаю я редко... - пер. А. Ахматовой
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112030401993
Свидетельство о публикации №112030401993
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