little page

This baby soul disconsolate
Was born, to the knight's mouth
A smile sweetheart ladies.
But she found amusing,
How naive drama,
This childish passion.

He dreamed of a glorious death,
About the power of proud kings
the country, which dates back light.
But she finds it amusing
This idea and repeated:
– “Vyrastai hurry!”

He wandered lonely and gloomy
Limits ponykshyh, silver grass,
All I dreamed of tournaments, helmet…
It was ridiculous blond boy
pampered all
For mocking temper.

Across the bridge leaning over the water,
he whispered (the latter was nonsense!)
– “Here she nods to me there!”
quietly floated, illuminated by a star,
On the surface of the pond
Dark blue beret.

This boy came, both from the dreams,
In the world of cold and sorrowful our.
Beauty often hears at night,
As the leaves tremble birch
over the grave, where napping
Her little page.

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Marina Tsvetaeva
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