Monrock - Дуб и Ива
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ДУБ И ИВА.
Храня отпечаток северных снов,
Гулял вольный ветер под сенью дубов,
Он пел им легенды о жизни князей,
Великих конунгов и королей.
Весной прилетел он в степные края
И сразу сказал, ничего не тая:
За белесым хребтом нескончаемых гор,
Где верным оружием служит топор,
Через северных фьордов узкий пролет,
Красавица-ива беспечно живет.
Длинные косы свои расплетает,
На воду их печально спускает.
Длинный подол ветвистый корней
Украшает бликами светлых лучей,
Что редко сумрачный лес посещают.
Однако, красавица вечно страдает.
Стенает днем и плачет ночами,
И не утешишь ее ты речами,
Плакучая ива плачет всегда -
Природа жестока, как и судьба.
Дуб-богатырь встрепенулся в ответ,
Живущий на свете уже сотню лет:
"Полюбилась мне та плакучая ива,
Пускай и печальна прекрасная дива.
Но природа жестоко обходится с нами:
К земле я привязан своими корнями.
Не свидеться нам, но ей отнеси
Все листья мои. Ну же, лети!"
Странный приказ ветер исполнил,
Пронес всю листву сквозь холодные фьорды.
У ног нежной ивы их разбросал
И честно о дубе ей рассказал.
И вновь зарыдала бедная ива,
Жалея о дубе, о том, что красива.
Ведь богатыря полюбила в ответ
И тут же дала вечный обед:
"Неси мои листья к диким степям,
Я слово свое дубу передам.
Отныне любовь - твое бремя забот,
Которое будешь носить каждый год".
С тех пор переносит северный ветер
Листву через фьорды в дикие степи.
И расстилает под сенью дубов,
Храня отпечаток северных снов.
Oak and willow.
Storing the imprint of the northern dreams,
The free wind walked under the canopy of oaks,
He sang them legends about the life of the princes,
Great horses and kings.
In the spring he flew into the steppe edges
And immediately said, without melting anything:
Behind the whitish ridge of the endless mountains,
Where an ax serves as a faithful weapon,
A narrow span through the northern fjords,
Beauty-Ivan lives carelessly.
Long braids are weaving,
They let them down sadly.
Long hem
Decorates with glare of light rays,
That rarely gloomy forest is visited.
However, the beauty is always suffering.
Flows during the day and cries at night,
And you will not console it with speeches,
The weaver willy always cries -
Nature is cruel, like fate.
Dub-Bogatyr started in response,
Living in the world for a hundred years:
"I fell in love with that weeping willow
Let the beautiful diva be sad.
But nature brutally treats us:
I am tied to the ground with my roots.
Do not meet us, but take it to her
All my leaves. Well, fly! "
The wind performed a strange order,
He carried all the foliage through the cold fjords.
At the feet of tender willow they scattered them
And honestly told her about oak.
And the poor willow sobbed again,
Sorry for oak, about what is beautiful.
After all, the hero fell in love with
And then she gave an eternal dinner:
"Bring my leaves to the wild steppes,
I will convey my oak word.
From now on, love is your burden of worries,
Which you will wear every year. "
The north wind has been tolerance since then
Foliage through the fjords in wild steppes.
And spreads under the canopy of oaks,
Keeping an imprint of northern dreams.
Storing the imprint of the northern dreams,
The free wind walked under the canopy of oaks,
He sang them legends about the life of the princes,
Great horses and kings.
In the spring he flew into the steppe edges
And immediately said, without melting anything:
Behind the whitish ridge of the endless mountains,
Where an ax serves as a faithful weapon,
A narrow span through the northern fjords,
Beauty-Ivan lives carelessly.
Long braids are weaving,
They let them down sadly.
Long hem
Decorates with glare of light rays,
That rarely gloomy forest is visited.
However, the beauty is always suffering.
Flows during the day and cries at night,
And you will not console it with speeches,
The weaver willy always cries -
Nature is cruel, like fate.
Dub-Bogatyr started in response,
Living in the world for a hundred years:
"I fell in love with that weeping willow
Let the beautiful diva be sad.
But nature brutally treats us:
I am tied to the ground with my roots.
Do not meet us, but take it to her
All my leaves. Well, fly! "
The wind performed a strange order,
He carried all the foliage through the cold fjords.
At the feet of tender willow they scattered them
And honestly told her about oak.
And the poor willow sobbed again,
Sorry for oak, about what is beautiful.
After all, the hero fell in love with
And then she gave an eternal dinner:
"Bring my leaves to the wild steppes,
I will convey my oak word.
From now on, love is your burden of worries,
Which you will wear every year. "
The north wind has been tolerance since then
Foliage through the fjords in wild steppes.
And spreads under the canopy of oaks,
Keeping an imprint of northern dreams.