автор: glishev

1.
The noble gleam of Russian gold
sets fire on my heart.
The maiden’s tresses strongly hold
in bonds my soul’s last shard.

They are alike to sudden flame
that overruns the woods
when Autumn has begun its game
with colours warm and fruits.

They burn like Summer’s endless days
when wheat does wait for reap.
Each hair of them flows in the way
of fiery lava’s leap.

Each single thread is like a ray
sent by the Sun towards us,
for golden-red her tresses lay
and feed my greedy lust.

2.
The maiden’s face is pale and fair
yet often does it blush.
The stream of blood does conquer there,
and sudden is its rush.

Where wind caresses her fair skin
it reddens as of shame.
Or if a minstrel bold does sing
her praise, it’s all the same.

But white or red, or like a rose,
each colour has its place,
for lovely suit her moods all those,
and fairer make her face.

3.
The maiden’s lips are in my dreams,
and on my lips my song.
And gladly would I give my limbs
for kisses sweet and strong.


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