An attempt to translate the classics.
the original: http://www.world-art.ru/lyric/lyric.php?id=1886
I wrote the words, uneven, on the slate
And on the rough hand-fans, which nearly faded,
And on the ice, with rapid snowy skates,
And on the pane, and on the sandy pavement,
Then on the trunks, which stood a hundred years,
To tell the world about this sleepless rapture
I felt for you, and instantly - who cares? -
All colors of the prism were used for capture.
Oh, how I wished that each of them would bloom
Through time, with me, in my atremble fingers,
And after that, in a deserted room
I crossed your name. It bit me like a stinger.
No more! - but look: a rotten penman's arms
Can't let it go - and cannot even bate it.
Inside the ring, impossible to harm,
It will survive, unsold, upon the tablet.
I wrote the words, uneven, on the slate
© Copyright: Аннет Алымова, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115031704575
Свидетельство о публикации №115031704575
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