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To a Girl

Девушке

I don't care for the indolence
in your crossed arms,
their calm modesty,
their shy fright.

You could have been written by Turgenev:
haughty, delicate, pure,
reeking of autumn that never
roars down the lane, where leaves whirl.

Everything you believe
is measured, first, is rational, balanced;
before you leave the house
you find your way on a map.

You know nothing, nothing! of the hunter
who climbs a bare straight cliff
and torn with joy, blessed with anguish,
shoots an arrow up at the sun.

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