The Schoenbrunn

Gentle first breath of spring,
heat night, quiet, moonlit.
again tears, dreams again
The gloomy castle Schönbrunn.

Someone white silhouette
Above the table below poniknul.
again sighs, again nonsense:
“Marseillaise! Throne!.. In Paris…”

Letters rushed to pages,
Line – regiment. singing pipes…
Drops falling from the lash,
“Again with you I!” whispered lips.

Lamps dim twilight
pales, night but lighter.
There whose menacing silhouette
He grew up in the depths of the alley?

…Prince of Austria? This role!
duke? Sleep! In winter Schönbrunn?
Not, he little king!
– “emperor, son beloved!

rushing! The chains are far,
We are free. Nope captivity.
see, nice, lights?
hear bursts? This Seine!”

As his father's broad cloak!
horse flies, enveloped in flames.
“That there roars, limits chasch?
sea, whether?” – “Son, – soldiers!”

– “ABOUT, father! As you burn!
views, but there straight, –
It is a paradise?” – “My son – Paris!”
– “And leaning over him?” – “Glory”.

In the bright glare of the Tuileries,
Razvevayutsya flags.
– “you suffered! Now the kings!
Hi, Napoleon's son!”

drums, sounds of strings,
All the colors… jubilant children…
Everything is quiet. sleeps Schönbrunn.
Someone crying in the moonlight.

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Marina Tsvetaeva
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