The Ballad of the Crimson Berries

Баллада о красных ягодках

(по мотивам сказки Людмилы Байкальской, в стиле Шекспира)

I. The Crystal Kingdom
In crystal halls, where silence hums like glass,
A Prince did walk beneath the chandeliers.
His father dead, his mother’s love, alas,
Had turned to one who shared the father’s years.
He wore his grief as armor black and proud,
His words were daggers sheathed in jest and pain;
He smiled before the ever-fawning crowd,
But wept unseen, where none could see his chain.

II. The Bridge of Meaning Lost
One eve he stood above the Mindless Stream,
Where waters whispered nothing, cold and deep.
He saw his pale reflection, like a dream
Forgotten by the soul that ceased to weep.
“What art thou, shadow, stranger in the wave?
My name thou bearest, yet thy gaze is numb.”
And from the depths — no echo, no behave,
Just silence vast, where thoughts like ashes come.

III. The Apothecary’s Counsel
A wizard, famed for healing mortal gloom,
Prescribed him potions, rest, and lawful bride.
But what are herbs to one who sees his tomb
In every dawn? His heart remained denied.

IV. The Tavern and the Maid
Through weary lands he rode at break of day,
To tavern small, where humble voices sang.
He told his tale — a stranger far astray,
While candles flickered, smoke to rafters clanged.
A maiden served him pie and trembling smile,
Her cheeks were berries blushing in the flame.
Upon the crust — a word, in fruit’s soft file:
“Yield not,” it read — and set his soul aflame.

V. The Awakening
“O blessed hand that wrote in crimson hue,
A sweeter charm than all my crown could buy!”
The Prince beheld — and knew the world anew,
And saw within her gaze a kind reply.
No crown, no rite could match this gentle art —
To speak through fruit the language of the heart.

VI. The Return
He found her home beyond the war-torn plain,
Where kings had fallen, mothers wept their kin.
He brought her back — no pomp, no gold, no chain,
And ruled with mercy kindled deep within.
He found no truth in scroll nor prophet’s call —
But saw salvation in a word so small.
“Yield not,” — it echoed through his mortal days,
Till crystal walls grew warm beneath his gaze.

Epilogue.
So let this tale in every heart be sown:
When hope seems faint, when dreams to dust are blown,
Remember — life is written, sweet and rough,
Not in the stars, but berries’ tender stuff.