By Alexander Blok
The old roses
I carry alone
In frosts and in snows,
And my way is long.
The same way he'd also
Taken, he goes
With sword on his shoulder,
Gowned in a hazy cloak.
He knows - already
The snow is stepped,
The last sunlight's steadily
Is burning to end,
That's no one exit
Thoughout the night,
That freedom is nearly
To left me apart.
Where could I find rather
A dwell in this night?
Only roses fall down
The melting snow-piles.
Only tears fall down
The scarlet snow-piles.
Being in deep woe -
I can't, though, help.
He will trample down
The roses without aim.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem