Nikolay Gumilev — The Turkey

In the morning of my unsure memory

I recall a many-coloured meadow,

where ruled a haughty

turkey, adored by me.

He was malicious and free,

his beak crimson as fire

and he was sharply scornful

of my four years.

Neither chocolate, nor caramels,

nor pineapple juice

could comfort me

in the realization of my shame.

Once more came disaster

and shame and grief of childhood years,

you, my adored one, cruel girl

answer me proudly: "No!"

But all passes in this unsteady life -

love will pass, sadness too,

and I will remember you with a smile

as I remember the turkey.