A night, a street, a lamp, a drugstore
A meaningless and dismal light
A quarter century outpours —
It’s all the same. No chance to flight.
You’d die and rise anew, begotten.
All would repeat as ever might:
The street, the icy rippled water,
The store, the lamp, the lonely night.
//Blok //4 Alisa A Hale
французские переводы не столь красивы http://www.translitterature.fr/media/article_31.pdf
Being in America 