The hope a mooncalf follows
is sacrifice for slaughter,
and yet the wings of swallows
still skip across the water. 

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The Sail

A lonely sail moves, white on white,
Amid the ocean’s mist and foam.
Caught now in a distant light,
What does it seek so far from home?
 
The halyards groan, the mast-beam creaks;
The sail now billows in the breeze.
It is not happiness it seeks,
Nor happiness from which it flees.
 
Above, the sun is blithe and warm;
Below, the blue waves rise and crest.
The rebel searches for a storm
As if in storms it could find rest.
 
after the Russian of Mikhail Lermontov(1814-1841)
translated by Leo Yankevich
first appeared in Trinacria
 
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© by Leo Yankevich
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