Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

(5 December 1803 – 27 July 1873 / Ovstug)

Don't say he loves me as before...


Don't say he loves me as before,
That, as before, he treasures me...
no! He callously destroys my life,
Although I see the knife shake in his hand.

In anger, weeping, yearning, indignation,
Obsessed and wounded in my soul,
I have no life - I struggle...for him alone I live -
But what a life!.. O, what a bitter life it is!

How stingily he measures out the air for me...
Less generous than to a mortal foe...
Oh, drawing breath is difficult and painful,
I can still breathe, but I can live no more.

Submitted: Monday, April 19, 2010

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