No, I didn't lost the beauty, but in whole,
I'm put to shame to see it by my eyes,
By eyes of men - else more, for my soul
Will not agree with their offensive prize.

And so I live, hiding my heart, divine,
Into the breast of a low, nasty rebel …
D' you see a spider on the green blade, fine,
And on its back - the cruciform black label?

A little child will run away from it,
And in a heist, you ever try to hit -
By squeamish hands - it off your neck of fairy.

It runs away of your unbound wrath,
Ashamed and known not what means the cross,
It always bears on his back so hairy.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2000