It is a gift to die in May…
Aleksey Borisovich Mozgovoy
22.05.2013
It is a gift to die in May—An easy task to dig a grave,
And nightingales will sing their song Inimitably, like their last. In May, the thunder of storms supplants A funerals’ dismal songs and sounds, And rain that comes instead of tears Dissolves the memories’ regret. The shelt’ring barrow of the grave Beneath the emerald of grass; A cross is a redundant mark Among a grove of weary birch. Beneath the rustling newborn leaves, With irrepresible thirst for life, The sun has yet to burn the grass, And every thing is animate. It is a gift to die in May, To stay behind in vernal dew. And though I could not do it all, There are no doubts where none remain… It is a gift, to die in May… | Не плохо в мае умереть,Могильщику копать удобно. |
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