«Ты пожалела, ты простила...»
(Николай Гумилёв)
You had mercy, you forgave
And even reached out your hand
When my unfortunate soul-grave
Was looted and left opened.
So happens when a generous winner
Doesn't doubt keeping the broke alive;
Even presents a part of a manor
To one whose freedom was deprived.
All, that at sleepless nights
From my dark soul I brought to world,
All, that is granted by the gods
To Me, the poet, to Me, the warrior of words,
All this, bowing before your power,
I'll give and will not hide at all.
All this for a dizzying rare hour
When you give me your precious soul.
Only don't ask me for cute ditties
I once was able to create.
You know, I cannot sing them pretty
With the sad voice of a castrate.
Don't punish me for this confession,
Don't send me back into my fear.
Sometime under the moon's procession
The languid slave will disappear.
He will run in a desert plain,
Through obstacles and ditches,
Forgetting himself and the savage pain,
All the conditions and treaties.
And you will never be aware,
To keep dismay away from heart,
In which of cursed marshes there
His pathway has fallen apart.