My mistress, who always wears black. She is no hero from some tale or song. She keeps my present, necklace on her neck, And touches it with her fingers, pale and long. Her voice is low, her eyes are sharp and green, The wicked eyes with the hypnotic charm. The own my will, possessed and cracked by sin, They make my heart pounding like a drum. My mistress, who always walks at night. She is no banshee from some the magic folk. Her blood is warm, her soul is deep and kind, Despite her hands are usually cold. I wish I could give all the fair days For just a night, where would be two of us, To listen to her gloomy ancient tales And pray for time to not to run so fast. She'd drink the сider, sparkling, strong and sore, Which I could taste with every little kiss. There are many drinks that I prefer more, But there is nothing sweeter than her lips. She doesn't like to talk about love. For her the words are no more than the dust. My mistress, who tries to live her life In present time, belonging to the past.