His Wines, Feasts And Funs
F
Fyodor Sologub
0
Altın Yaprak
His wines, feasts and funs are forgotten,
His sword and his armour are left,
He, single, descends into rotten
A dungeon, without a lamp.
With a shrill and continued sound,
The door - all forgot it - is rolled:
Just dampness and darkness around,
And the window's set high and small.
His eyes grow used to the darkness,
And through humid gloom under vaults,
Strange marks dawn on stony vastness,
Of selling, wet floor, and wet walls.
He looks for a long time at networks
Of the marks, such unknown, and waits,
When his eyes, like eyes of all sinners,
Will be well enlightened by death.
Bu metin şairin özgün dilinde (Rusça) değil, bir çeviridir.
Kamu malı: şairin ölümünün üzerinden 70 yıldan fazla geçti.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş