The old roses
I carry alone
In frosts and in snows,
And my way is long.
The same way he'd also
Taken, he goes
With sword on his shoulder,
Gowned in a hazy cloak.
He knows - already
The snow is stepped,
The last sunlight's steadily
Is burning to end,
That's no one exit
Thoughout the night,
That freedom is nearly
To left me apart.
Where could I find now
A dwell in this night?
Only roses fall down
On the melting snow-piles.
Only tears fall down
On the red snow-piles.
But being in woe -
I can't, though, help.
He will trample down
The roses in vain.
4 november 1908
Старинные розы... - перевод А. Блока
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115041402828
Свидетельство о публикации №115041402828
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