Blue heaven, but the high
Catholic domes are more blue.
Forgive me, happy boy,
The death I brought you.
For the roses from the stall,
For the foolish letters you sent,
That your dark and impudent
Face grew pale.
I thought, a cadet's pride
At becoming adult.
I thought, objects of the cult
Aren't loved like brides.
But it happened to be real.
Into the freezing days,
Already listless, you followed me
Everywhere and always.
As though you wanted to see
I didn't love you. Forgive me!
Vowed yourself to martyrdom.
And death held out his hand to you…
But why? Why did you take it?
I didn't know how frail the naked
Throat under the high blue
Collar. Happy boy . . . tortured
Owlet . . . Forgive me.
I find it hard today
To leave the church.

1913, November

Бібліотека ім. Анни Ахматової >> Твори >> Переклади >> Збірки віршів (англ. мова)

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