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@MSGID:
<7ec66002-225e-4710-b293-99f338e8d501n@googlegroups.com> fca2e19a
@REPLYADDR Ilya Shambat <ibshambat@gmail.com>
@REPLYTO 2:5075/128 Ilya Shambat
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<7ec66002-225e-4710-b293-99f338e8d501n@googlegroups.com>
@TZUTC: -0700
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@TID: FIDOGATE-5.12-ge4e8b94
To you - crown of thorns; of roses - to your fathers
To you - an empty jug, to fathers - wine.
For their transgressions you have fallen martyr,
O the dauphine tormented at the dawn!
Not rotten fruit - a flower, unlived, fresh one,
The people`s anger stomped into the mire.
All children have the same expression:
Such inexpressible and tender eyes!
You`ve smoked as from a pipe, the heir, the prince, with
In your curls, skullcaps of the mutineers;
With ruddy wine the pinkish lips were filthy,
Shoemaker`s fist was beating the dauphine.
Where is the proud shine of centuries gloried?
Everything vanished, into dust and soil!
For all of it the little children suffered:
A baby-prince and curly-headed girl.
The final moment of the parting`s here.
Hold! Someone`s song! It is the angel chorus...
And you spread out the arm that grow weaker
There where there`s shelter for the travelers.
On distant journey credulously departing,
You understood, O prince, wherefore we cry,
And know, as you to a dear song you slumber,
That you`ll awake a monarch in the sky.
By Marina Tsvetayeva
Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat
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