By Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
In your songs innermost there are
The fatal news all about the death,
And the curse of the holy behests,
Profanation of happiness, lest
The attracting invincible force,
That I'm ready to reiterate talks
That you'd angels brought down to earth
By your beauty so perfect, utmost.
When you laugh at belief, there appears
A softened circle, which's purple-grey coloured,
Whether bad, may be good - not from here
You are, thus hard to wonder:
For some people you're - the Miracle,
For me - my Muse - is the torture and hell,
I don't know, why in the morning,
In hour of a weakness total
I've been not perished, but your face
I've seen and asked you a console?
I wished us being only foes...
Then why did you presented me
Such a beautiful and reach green meadow
And a starry vault's solidity?
All that the helled amenities?
And more perfidious, than a night northen,
More heady, than a wine light-golden,
More short, than a gypsy'love cold,
Were your such awful endearments.
And there an enjoyment fatal
In trampling of the cherished dreams,
A reckless, but so sweetheart pleasure
And a passion bitter as absinth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem