Like little children playing with fire... Probably, this is love? Let it be so. Ah, let it be so! I'll laugh as soft as a dove, As I would cry, forgiving you My tenderness given away. Ah, but the sweet and sinful light Of the blue lilac spray That blossomed upon my bosom last night And was plucked off with such pain!... How bitter it is, the wine of your blood! Make haste – it is day again! Only – the dreadful, crazy thirst Of rivers too dry for ships... The black-hued, dew-laden flower of night Is fading upon my lips... You've drunk your fill? Ah, let it be so – I'll say as soft as a dove. Like little children playing with fire... Probably, this is love... On? Baliukon?, translated by Dorian Rottenberg