Sunday, December 5, 2010

Pushkin. Flower. 1828. And it's still true.

I've found some dried out flower, its odor gone
Forgotten in a book
And - well, my whole being shakes
By some strange dream:

Where'd it bloom? When? What was the spring like then?
And had it grown awhile? Who collected it -
A stranger, or a familiar hand?
And why should it be laid here?

In memory of some sweet encounter
Or of a star-crossed desertion,
Or a lonely sojourn
Through the silence of the fields, the shades of the forest?

And could the man be alive, or his lover too?
Right now, what corner have they found together?
Or have they withered away
Just like this dried out flower?

Перевод мой.

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