The street has woke up. And, tired,
Looks 'round with the windows still
At faces slumberous, by frost got scarlet,
Which drive by thoughts the rests of dream.
The black trunks of the trees are covered
With a hoarfrost - by the trace of funs,
That were in night, as if in brocade
They stay - as dead between alive.
And their the crumpled grey coat flickers,
A cap with wreath, a cheerless face,
And red hands, pressed closely to ears,
And a black apron with the books in sheaf.
The street has raised up. Looks around
With the gloomy eyes of windows still.
To sleep, and to forget in comfort,
That life's - illusion, and all is - dream!
Проснулась улица - перевод М. Цветаевой
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112060901311
Свидетельство о публикации №112060901311
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