Авторский перевод на английский стихотворения
“Увы, мой друг, прошла твоя весна…”
Alas! Your spring is nearing its end,
And presently you cost eight onions[1], dear friend.
What should be mutual is unrequited still,
And only death to welcome feels a thrill.
You’ll take – neither to Heaven, nor to Hell –
Your leave. The word – it will forever dwell,
Absorbing substances, on land and sea.
Long live the word, my dear promisee!
***
Notes.
1. In 1250, Frenchmen ransomed the prisoners from Saracens for eight onions per person.