In a hungry and such ill captivity
There's no day as day,year as year.
When will fields bring up their yielding,
When will the slave-people breathe freely?
In summertime,as usual,in darkness
There rustle,standing straight or bending lowly,
Under the secret wind all crops high:
It's time to flowering, time to blossoming.
The people is the wreath of earthly flowers,
The beauty and nice pleasure of them all:
No one for sure could escape from a God's summer,
Which's good for all-well for us also.
В голодной и больной неволе... - пер. А. Блока
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112121905940
Свидетельство о публикации №112121905940
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