By Alexander Blok
Fall down, the curtain decrepit,
On my ill pelargonium.
Shoo, my gipsy life, unbelievable
Distinguish your eyes, close!
Were that you, life, who enriched my poor dwell
With a steppe mat grass!
Were that you, life, who my dreamy self,
Unbreakable, poisoned with a green wine!
As a gypsy girl with a patterned shawl
You stretched before me tempted,
Oi-li, with the blue-black plaits long,
Oi-li, with the storm of fire-passions!
What did cry in the whisper without mind?
The unearthly words?
That wasn’t me, surely, if to remember thouroughly,
My head was round going…
My steppe is burned out, the grass mown,
No fire, no star, no way lit…
And whom I kissed – that’s not my fault
Those, whom I promised – pardon me…
30 december 1908
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