How in my dark braids was woven at least
A soft, silvery strand right in length,
Only you, nightingale, numb and voiceless,
This torment will be able to sense.
With your sharp ear, you can hear the distant
Ruffled up, at thin limbs of the broom
You are looking — and even not breathing,
If a strange song sounds around in gloom.
So recently, everyone was seeing
How the poplar trees calmed down and froze,
Venomously was ringing and singing
The unspeakable pleasure of yours.
15-16 June, 2024
***
Ю. Анненков. Портрет А. Ахматовой, 1921 г. Источник: kulturologia.ru
Ахматова Как вплелась в мои тёмные косы... перевод
© Copyright: Валентина Ильина-Печенова, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124061601074
Свидетельство о публикации №124061601074
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