You can't buy Love by mere order only,
You can't select it by the colour, taste...
It comes to one man once without effort,
And to the other man - in tens of years.
One love - is burning, other's - stifled...
And we could say without any hide:
Love doesn't have the standards anyhow!
And everybody have of their own kind.
In cold or in rainy weather, either
In scorching heat,
You shouldn't call, it'll come...
I say in those words about real,
About true and great and tender Love!
And not about love, born in a boredom,
Which, being inflamed, will turn to rather cool...
I say about love, which may be flour,
Which has passed through the death, although.
It burns with such a pleasure in your soul,
Or presses with the weight of lead...
If you have found such Love, then undoubtly
Keep it, hold it and care it till end!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem