Our Land is vast and numb,
And it has poets in abundance.
So the departure of one
Causes no void, nor even sadness.
Oh Mummy, no tears please.
Sweet wife, be kind, cry thee not.
New poets are to come, and these
Shall share our bitter lot.
Again will sound Chopin's nocturne,
The friends will gather for a wake
And for internment of an urn,
With words of grief, sincere or fake.
Forever runs this sad conveyor,
In the abundant land of worth.
And everything begins again –
See the beginning of this verse.
The wives and mothers yield to sorrow.
The bell shall toll, the cry shall rise.
Thank God, we are not blue collars –
Although at a heavy price.
Перевод из Игоря Иртеньева
© Copyright: Михаил Эфроимский, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114110809548
Свидетельство о публикации №114110809548
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