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Fairy Tale

Once, in times forgotten,

In a fairy place,

Through the steppe, a

Made his way apace.

While he sped to battle,

Nearing from the

Distance, a dark

Rose ahead of him.

Something kept repeating,

Seemed his heart to graze:

Tighten up the saddle,

Fear the watering-place.

But he did not listen.

Heeding but his will,

At full speed he

Up the wooded  hill;

Rode into a valley,

Turning from the mound,

Galloped through a meadow,

Skirted higher ground;

Reached a gloomy hollow,

Found a trail to

Down the woodland

To the watering-place.

Deaf to voice of warning,

And without remorse,

Down the slope, the

Led his thirsty horse.

Where the stream grew shallow,

Winding through the glen,

Eerie flames lit up

Entrance to a den.

Through thick clouds of

Smoke above the spring,

An uncanny

Made the forest ring.

And the rider started,

And with peering

Urged his horse in

To the haunting cry.

Then he saw the dragon,

And he gripped his lance;

And his horse stood

Fearing to advance.

Thrice around a

Was the serpent wound;

Fire-breathing

Cast a glare around.

And the dragon's

Moved his scaly neck,

At her shoulder

Whiplike forth and back.

By that country's

Was a young and

Captive brought as

To the dragon's lair.

This then was the

That the people

To the

For a poor abode.

Now the dragon hugged

Victim in alarm,

And the coils grew

Round her throat and arm.

Skyward looked the

With imploring glance,

And for the

Fight he couched his lance.

Tightly closing eyelids.

Heights and cloudy spheres.

Rivers.

Waters.

Boulders.

Centuries and years.

Helmetless, the

Lies, his life at stake.

With his hooves the

Tramples down the snake.

On the sand, together-Dragon, steed, and lance;

In a swoon the rider,

The maiden-in a trance.

Blue the sky; soft

Tender noon caress.

Who is she?

A lady?

Peasant girl?

Princess?

Now in joyous

Cannot cease to weep;

Now again

To unending sleep.

Now, his strength returning,

Opens up his eyes;

Now anew the

Limp and listless lies.

But their hearts are beating.

Waves surge up, die down;

Carry them, and waken,

And in slumber drown.

Tightly closing eyelids.

Heights and cloudy spheres.

Rivers.

Waters.

Boulders.

Centuries and years.

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Пастернак Борис

Произведения Бориса Пастернака. (29 января [10 февраля] 1890 — 30 мая 1960) — русский поэт, писатель и переводчик. Один из крупнейших русских по…

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