How many companions, friends!
No one you'll be echo to.
This tender youth is governed
By pride and bitterness, as truth.
Do you remember the crazy day in port,
The threats of south winds,
And the roar of Kaspian sea - in mouth
The rose's wing.
And the gypsy had given you
The stone in fretted oval,
And the gypsy was lying you
Something about glory...
And - somewhere high at sails -
There was a boy in a short dark-blue.
Thunderstorm of sea and a call menacing
Of the wounded Muse.
25 june 1916
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem