Not the beauty of verse, not originality,
Not a break with the distraught crowd,
There is the best laurel for the muses - defenselessness
Before fate, people and themselves.
She walks, and a heavy porphyry
Descends from sloping, timid shoulders.
The soul is tormented. The lyre is broken.
But tenderness is eternal and immortal speech.
Не красота стиха, не самобытность,
Не спевка с обезумевшей толпой,
Есть лучший лавр для музы - беззащитность
Перед судьбой, народом и собой.
Она идет, и тяжкая порфира
Спускается с покатых, робких плеч.
Истерзана душа. Разбита лира.
Но нежность вечна и бессмертна речь.
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