«This is a story of witch - the witch who was a bird. She was born in the dirt but stayed clear. Her mother gave her the secret of Lord but could not away her from the fear»   

Music: Alexander Yablokov
Poetry: Pavel Donets

408. Sonnet Luceria (instrumental)

Sonnet 5

"Those hours that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet".

Music: Alexander Yablokov
Poetry: William Shakespeare

402. Sonnet #5

Sonnet 131

«This is a story of witch - the witch who was a bird. She was born in the dirt but stayed clear. Her mother gave her the secret of Lord but could not away her from the fear»   - PD.

"Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.

And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans but thinking on thy face
One on another's neck do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgement's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander as I think proceeds". - WS.

Music: Alexander Yablokov
Poetry: William Shakespeare, Pavel Donets

401. Sonnet Luceria

Sonnet 130

"My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white; why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go -
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare". 

Sonnet 128

"How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss".

Music: Alexander Yablokov
Poetry: William Shakespeare

Sonnets

404. Sonnet Comparisons

«Я-вольна! 
С тобою никогда не будет пусто. И ты за то в ответе!
Ах, какой счастливой я была с тобой!
Какой счастливою я буду, буду!
Как облагородила я музыку твою, 
Ты слышишь ли мой друг мою печаль и слезы?
Птицею небесной я к тебе лечу! 
Слышишь ли меня?
Я улетаю в небеса!
Прощай, мой друг!» -ОЯ

«I'm free!
It will never be empty with you. And you are responsible for that!
Oh, how happy I was with you!
How happy I will be, I will be!

How I ennobled your music,
Сan you hear my friend my sadness and tears?
I'm flying to you like a bird of heaven!
Can you hear me?
I'm flying to the skies!
Farewell, my friend!» - OY

Sonnet 127

"In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slandered with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who not born fair no beauty lack,
Sland'ring creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so". - WS

Music: Alexander Yablokov
Poetry: Olga Yablokova (OY, ОЯ), William Shakespeare (WS)

MacBeth