Читать книгу Procrastination. Selected poems - Egor Rybakov - Страница 10

Love is pure, unpretentious and young,

And never demands from you, never asks

Born to please us by fate,

Always takes us to a cloudless world.

She lives in the eyes of a child since childhood,

In moments of joy and eternal knowledge,

Joy has become long-awaited for the bride,

It brings with it all the tenderness and suffering.

She is barely visible and unpretentious,

In noticeable dimples on the cheeks and a smile,

What warms the soul, free, so bashful,

And it can slip away, it is unsteady.

And let it seem to you that all this is ostentatious,

Callous emotions, strained smile, tenderness,

Not everyone will be able to enjoy that spring,

Open up to feelings, be serene again.

After all, many are unaware of all these experiences,

Only know from movies and romantic books

Others were disappointed, for them – suffering,

And quench bitterness in the knowledge of wine, intrigues.

Love cannot be ostentatious, in quotation marks,

She was born to suffer and rise again

She lives only with those who believe in fairy tales,

And it will become pleasure, faith and support.

Love is different, open and naive,

A little hidden, wide open, where feelings break,

So demanding, sad and happy

But more often we are carried away into the distance as a sincere impulse.