B.Pasternak, The feasts - translation (rus.)
By Boris Pasternak
I drink the bitterness of tuberoses, of the autumn skies, as well,
And your betrayals' burning jet - in them,
I drink the bitterness of evenings, nights, of the meetings' rave,
And bitterness of the crying moist strophe's dwell.
The studio offsprings, we neglect the soberness.
We fight with all the stable payment, life-piece.
The anxious wind of nights - with a cupbearer of wassails,
Of hopes, which are hardly to be incarnated in.
Heredity and death - are guests on our feasts.
When in a silent dawn - the tops of trees are burning -
In a rusk-cup, as a mouse, delves the anapeast,
And Sinderella, hasting, changes her gown.
The floors are broomed, on the tablecloth - no crumble.
As a child's kiss - the verse breathes easily,
And Sinderella runs - in days of luck on a brougham,
But when the last coin passed - on her two feet.
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