The beauty’s spanned by mellow autumn,
All fibers covered with a cutglass dew.
All autumn webs are now forgotten,
Its beauty which destroys rue.
At night a poet is not sleeping,
His pen just wants to start to write.
The fire of soul in lines is flaming,
It can’t be silent at this night.
Should we be calm when paints are noisy?
When new silhouettes come into sight,
When nature gives the world new stories,
A painter – paint, a poet – write!
29.03.2021
перевод Екатерины Бородулиной
The beauty s spanned by mellow autumn
© Copyright: Ида Хажилова, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121123100497
Свидетельство о публикации №121123100497
Рецензии