Eduard Asadov

From shores of Antarctic to Arctic –
Men went through all waters of world,
And only the Isle of Romantics
Their maps until now avoid.            

But yet, it exists, to be sure,
And moons and high lands there exist,
But not – just a single arguer,
And not – just a single ‘sceptist’,

Without Philistines’ stupid whispers,
Without any bore and pine,
There, live just the permanent dreamers…
Who fell in a love or a fun.

It has sturdy cliffs of blue color,
And voice of all kinds of a wind,
The white albatrosses there hover,
And sails of bright crimson are seemed.

It has, else, the Cap of Rob Crusoe,
The Gulf of the knight Don Ouixote,
Guitars, there, are not ‘whole losers’,
And honor is always in sight.
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
Guitars ring in nights midst white roses,
Fly rockets to stars from the land,
The lovers there tell only verses,
And could only them understand.

From shores of Antarctic to Arctic –
Men went through all waters of world,
And only the Isle of Romantics
Their maps until now avoid.

But don’t be upset, my friend dear,
By maps. You don’t need them because   
This island is utterly near – 
It is in a soul of yours!


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March, 2001