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She’s lying dead. Her breasts – two whitened bowls.
Her closed eyes – two heavens of the blue.
Is it her fault that turquoise, highness through,
Not in a silence – in a thunder grows?

Due her great charm, men fight like gods below.
And former storms will be a tale half-true,
The minute tear – a pearl that’s always new,
The carnage, wild, – a song, the great and slow.

She’s lying dead. To her exquisite thighs,
Her chiseled hands are leaning with precision.
She is destined to be the quiet vision, –

Out good and bad – discharged in chain of times.
She’s lying dead mid stars, where breathing measure,
And in blind Homer’s rhythmical tunes-treasures.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 2003