A descendant of the Swedish kings

ABOUT, you, who just a mile
victorious chords, –
prostrate! Before you proud
A descendant of the Swedish kings.

My glorious race – my otrava!
I am burning with longing – all!
prostrate: here before you
A descendant of the glorious Gustav.

With haughty Duma on the face
In his little world-innocent children
I dreamed about the Swedish throne,
The wars, Penalties and wreaths.

In my eyes, longing for a miracle
This ignited hatred,
That these too angry eyes,
unable to endure, They feared the people.

Now I became pale and weak,
I am a prisoner of the most bitter pain,
I am the ghost of the morning – do not hurt…
But every enemy is me, who is not a slave!

Vspoen lehendoy road,
Umrah, legendary paladin,
And my greetings to all one:
“You could be my servant!”

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Marina Tsvetaeva
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