Take from my open hands for your delight A bit of honey and a bit of sun As willed to us the bees of Proserpina. Not to untie again an unmoored boat, And not to know a shadow shod in fur, Nor yet to conquer fear of dreary lifetime: To us remain but kisses in the night, Fuzzy and shivering like little bees That fall and die as they depart the hive. They shimmer in transparent nigthtime breeze, Their home is haunted forest of Taigetos, They feast on mint, and honeycomb, and spacetime. Take then my wild gift for your delight, A simple wreath of withered little bees That died as they changed honey into sun. By Osip Mandelshtam Translated by Ilya Shambat https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat
