Ah, why, why is t'is desire still here, Vladimir?
T'is generous, yes, and unmistakable desire
to love thee, and imagine thee here-
fidgeting softly and so tenderly
within th' nourishing charms of my arms.
And thy bronze hair!
Swiftly moving away, along with thy own fantasy
as I rub my palm across its comeliness
and bestow a kiss on its fairness.
Oh, what a morbid, morbid image!
An image I should dream of not!
I am allowed not to love thee, allowed not!
For I am his already, and might just be his forever-
and thus to befriend all his mistakes,
bear all his troublesome resolutions,
and cheer and sheepishly flourish
in th' seemingly very occurrences of his triumphs.
And his days, Vladimir-are supposedly my ways,
my ways towards yon now unbearable fascination,
whose murky door is a key to fate, ah-
a fate to my mind, and assumed, t'ough dreaded, salvation.
But look, look how my conscience is burnt!
O, burnt upon thinking of leading t'is life-
and th' remnants of my thy age, without thee!
Burnt so atrociously together as it shalt be-
with my loitering delight, which lies just, tragically,
in th' layers of thy salubrious lips, and
th' very sole guiltlessness of thy blue eyes.
O, how immortal is its blueness, Vladimir-
in whom shalt never t'ere be mortal misery!
A mortal, mortal misery-
like yon one of t'at roaring seagull,
suffocating and out choking upon its first fly
over th' highlands next to th' sea
and behindst its deafening nightmare across th' sky
innocent and trembling, in such coldness,
without having but anywhere to lie;
meanwhile trampled along by th' sinister heaven
until its tower of love, and wreaths of wisdom, die.
But look at t'ose angels above 'im!
With paeans so eloquent and fulled by eagerness,
shalt t'ey sing above its eccentric grave-
ah, but only a grave of stateliness, and not 'is body
until wherein a touch of t'eir finger
wakes 'im back up, and resuscitates 'is rays of laughter
so t'at it celebrates forever eternity-
and in return, its very own eternity, forever.

And here I am-like a pale tree, standing *****
'mongst most of th' nightly valley-
animated with green light, and shapes of madness
in th' entirety of whose torso;
so t'at I wilt, with such a wildness in my heart,
hover over thee against in today's dreams,
and thy magic which is buried humbly in thy Moscow.
O, my Russian prince, for th' battles of my heart thou hath won
and from whose sarcasm thou hath shone.
I am drawn, drawn, hungrily-and selfishly, to thee!
And I caught thee, again, yesterday, behind th' bushes,
far not from th' rich forests and distant gravel paths,
waving at me, with a gentle smile on thy lips
defined t'ere so clearly, so young and free!
O, but cannot I declare t'at I love thee,
how sadly and tortuously!
Ah, for I am entwined with him only,
how thou but came late to my life-
oh, if only t'ose dreadful seconds hath but never existed!
Remorse, remorse, and accusations are but th' mere ones
t'at I deserve; and shalt forever just I preserve
for from thy love I canst never run;
and t'is ode shalt be meaningless and just fun
as to nature I wilt do harm
should I ever be swirled lost in thy charms.

Ah, Vladimir! I reckon thy love is as poisonous
as Eden's evil fruit; and soon I consumed my sight-
by peering up into thy eyes;
I caught th' sense of boyish starlight,
which lulled me t'en to a new sleep, all day and night.
Thy very mirth is to me laughs;
but thy sadness is to me tears.
But all thy touches are to me love;
and of which no-one shalt ever hear.
For thinking of thee is a sin, my love-
and a wound to him, and his course a fear.
How forbidden, forbidden thou art, to me!
But sadly I canst only love thee!
Oh, Vladimir, I doth love thee, with all th' strictness
and assurances t'at I might have-as all th' powers I may still save.
My Vladimir! And in th' afterlife,
with blossoms of snow in our cold Moscow
Might just we be t'ere for our tomorrow;
and cherish t'is end of our strained sorrow.

And just hath I always done,
'Tis time needed I retreatst from my poetry;
and faced, ah, faced t'is troublesome relapse
of my reality. Oh, t'ese wan, surreal chores!
And t'at knock on my door-which is insidiously
his, and his only.
But I shalt think of thee again, t'is evening-
and may just be more ever after,
with such an ardent thoughtfulness in my mind
and violent; as how is t'is craving, for making thee mine.