By Osip Mandelstam
With a tinsel gold the fir-trees're flamed
In woods in the Christmas time.
In bushes there the toy-wolves stare
At you with their awful eyes.
Oh, my prophetic melancholy,
Oh, my silent freedom that,
And the glass of heaven, which is laughing constantly,
Though it might be surely dead!
1908
Сусальным золотом... - перевод О. Мандельштама
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113022609157
Свидетельство о публикации №113022609157
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