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I know these young actresses
Bothersome , crafty and persistent ,
False life , gentle in the restrooms ,
Where every night someone's benefit .

They are sad , love in vain
In themselves - Ophelia and Juliet ,
They have long and deeply unhappy
In its reciprocity , alas, no success .

And next life. They do not notice
That somewhere there is the sun and love,
They die in a strange success ,
And , dying, resurrected again .

From jealousy, searing pain
They burn forever.
And at night mourning the role
Which have never played it .

I recognize them noticeable tremor
Hot hands and greedy eyes shine .
Their conversation also reminds
Plays some familiar retelling .

Tragically their efforts fruitless .
But firmly believing that wait for the day,
Like butterflies , they burn wings
Bengal fire in the cold .

And enduring the usual trays
Bated deep anguish and anger,
They already do not ask questions ,
And only the maids play queens.