Play the violinist, you're the best
Not inclined to destiny
Your elements, the muse corrects
Whose heart to follow in the sleep
Your hero, the protect of honour
Your bow, which burned with a gold
By all of gods you are forgotten
Your play the living overture
When touch a silence will concern
Have heard infernal trill to call
Strings that have sung begin to cry
Hymn of the death, following you
Your own ball, a lot of centuries
Your are carried on a hands by crowd
And on a fire to hasten ready
There will be only memory
Violinist мой перевод Скрипача
© Copyright: Алексей Фондов, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116102607573
Свидетельство о публикации №116102607573
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