There happens silent minute once.
The frost laces are seen on glass.
My dream clings there to someone,
Boring in warmness of my life...
A sudden mist of a garden moisture,
An iron bridge spans river sides,
A grey fence, braided with the roses,
And blue, blue slavery of eyes...
The flows, whispering of something,
My head, going round as in dance...
Your kisses, a khokhol (* ukranian) girl, binding,
Your words sound guttural in love...
June 1909
Бывают тихие минуты... - пер. А. Блока
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115081805920
Свидетельство о публикации №115081805920
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