by Boris Pasternak
Translation
Off the clamor like a muffled thunder.
I am briskly coming to the stage.
Leaning ‘gainst the door I feebly wonder
What will happen in my distant age.
Scrutinizing me are cold and bossy
Eyes of darkness piercing on the spot.
Father Abba, pity me, have mercy,
Make it so that I avoid this lot.
‘t would be fine with me to be your servant,
To this pipe like your performer dance
But the play that’s on does not concern it,
So let me go just for once
Yet, his lordship’s plan has been developed,
It will cut my role without fail.
Here I am, by hypocrites enveloped
Life is hard. It’s not all cakes and ale!
Hamlet
© Copyright: Алексей Кошелкин, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117120311361
Свидетельство о публикации №117120311361
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