Хризантемы

Once it was summer’s golden reign—
With flings and hearts in sweet confusion.
I left behind, with brief disdain,
A woman bright as love’s illusion.
But now comes autumn, cool and shy,
And yellow leaves begin their spinning.
I’m tired of games that pass me by—
It’s her my heart recalls, beginning.

To her, I’d bring the flowers’ grace,
And poems steeped in fall’s soft fire,
My dreams, my hopes I would embrace,
In petals’ tender, warm embrace—
Chrysanthemums of lost desire.

She might not care for me at all,
Forgotten now, the past is fleeting.
She’ll shut the door, deny my call,
As if we’d never shared a meeting.
But still, I hurry through the rain,
Compose the lines my soul delivers—
For I love her through joy and pain,
Yes, I love only her again…
But will she take my flowers? Shivers.



Ah, these strange flowers that I bring—
They bloom like late confessions spoken!
In them, the dreams return in spring,
My dreams revived and fluttering—
My hopes once lost, now softly woken.




Ah, these rare blossoms in the mist,
They speak of love in autumn’s tremble…
A fleeting kiss, a heart long missed—
Chrysanthemums of love… so simple.
Chrysanthemums of love… remembe.

На стихи Елены Беловой в переводе.
https://www.neizvestniy-geniy.ru/users/65377.html