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.