Autumn - Brodsky

kicks me out of the park,
Sucitu liquid Osimo
and drags me around,
It hits the ground
sheludyvыm letter
and, like the Park,
twist around my hands and ports
cobweb rain;
in the sky hides distaff
muslin this miserable,
and there
it thunders,
in the hand of the boy has run a stick
of iron colors.

Apollo, take away
I have his lyre, Leave me a fence
and answer me Velma
favorably: strings harmony
replace - accept -
inability sticks to dissonance,
converting your do-re-mi
in hromovuyu roulades,
as a good Perun.

Full of the love song,
Sing about autumn, old throat!
It only spread out his tent
over you, jet
their ice
plowing loam drill,
Sing them and curves
bald crown of their tip;
the incident and herbs
his game, rabid pack!
I am your prey.

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Marina Tsvetaeva
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