To the Woman by Iosif Utkin

Neither foolish joy,

Nor positive sadness—

And, my dear, do not trust

In tender songs.

In quiet old age

Or boisterous youth,

Stronger than everyone else

Is the restless beast.

I confess:

Don't hide from conscience:

Doubts are abandoned,

I toss and turn like a wounded king.

I confess:

There is more curiosity in us,

Than genuine, good feelings.

And I sang songs,

And cherished all your dreams,

But—full of envy,

But—full of vanity,—

I scattered all your hope in a bim

Like a dandelion

On sunny days pretty…

Forgive me…

To stand once more before

Your clear eyes—

It is torment and dread for me!

I did not know how

To love you

As clearly,

As your pure eyes

Are open now.

Forgive me!

Do not reproach me for leaving.

Or perhaps...

Am I truly is been blame?

Better to endure

Hardship for half a year appearing,

Than to live each day

In a web of lie game!