It is a gift to die in May…
Aleksey Borisovich Mozgovoy
|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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