Monologue to mother (translation of B. Mozolevskiy poem)
Monologue to mother (translation of B.Mozolevskiy poem)
On that tracks by the distant steppes,
By sages bluish against moths,
Where Your wounded legs made steps, -
Thorn, dear mother, accured, like a grass.
Gather all my acquisition in handful.
Hard is my plow, lean is my arable.
So would You happines for me in full!
Not got to see... That's terrible! Ground, like a floss for You!
I'm all going and all not enough -
The goal and friends, achievements, the way.
Something rare in this world You know,
Which I'll never comprehend anyway!
So often I, when on my soul annoyance,
When not exposed the hight
I'm calling You for advice, without chance
My voice die in the sky... Again lie and think through all the night,
Because world is mine, and everything is mine in it!
Maybe roosters shouted, like in the fight,
But day don't go and sun isn't asleep.
I'll look on my way, by heart downed,
Permeate cold is the haze by the weeks.
On that ways, where I myself found,
Something acute from the ground breaks.
Червень 2016.
