| To the far shore of the White Sea
|
| I'm flying again, not arguing with fate.
|
| And you, my timid dream,
|
| Do not wring your hands from grief.
|
| Another parting:
|
| Reproach, annoyance, chagrin.
|
| I fly to be treated by distance,
|
| I don't believe in a cure at all.
|
| I rush into the sky with stormy feelings
|
| From the vicious circle.
|
| Let the clouds torn in tufts
|
| We will be separated from each other again.
|
| And let them, lead from the ground,
|
| A featherbed will lie snow-white,
|
| Below someone else's, exemplary
|
| You will remain a wife, as before.
|
| And I'm with me all the colors of autumn
|
| I'll take snow blizzards,
|
| Where blue blues are rare,
|
| Where thoughts are sinful, intoxicated.
|
| I'll take deciduous whirlwinds,
|
| Winds over frozen ponds.
|
| I'll take joyless thoughts,
|
| Indestructible for years.
|
| And along the loop ... skids,
|
| Springs of hope, through the darkness of doubt
|
| Will draw a bright park from winter
|
| In the snow of life's layers
|
| Green light of ghostly hope,
|
| The only one given by fate.
|
| Farewell, my usual pain.
|
| All yours, rebellious, restless.
|
| That's all. |
| Till. |