Родилась на Украине. Окончила Московский историко-архивный институт. С 1969 года живёт и работает в Москве. Член Союза писателей России, член Союза писателей-переводчиков России (английский язык), член Московской Ассоциации гидов-переводчиков. Лауреат нескольких литературных конкурсов. Имеет литературные награды. Автор книг прозы, поэзии, переводов. 


("Вещее сомнение" на http://vbasyrovdola.ucoz.ru/index/sovremenniki/0-22 )




The setting wheezes, being sunk in blood,

and ashes scatter near stars…

I hear through the distant ages loud,

smart, desperate birches’ cries, burnt grass.


I see the faces – very arrogant,

of Tatar forefathers of mine,

And near them bent, stooping captives went:

both old and young, tied by strong line…


So long ago crows’ loud cries

Were hovering – the church above.

This was the end of subjugated Russ.

Hooves trampled the land of Yaroslav.


But, why does his authoritative glance

look so fatigued, what is with him?

His waking dream had no compassion once,

His gory sword drove haughty dream.


His eyes are full of calm indifference,

Baty looks, as if simply sleeps.

He chased eternal grandeur, radiance…

Has he the world? Khan bends his lips.


The conquerors bring gold crosses, silver frames,

Utensils to the feet of him.

The plunder is the law of cruel games,

implementation of a dream.


But how can he understand these men?

They’re unrepentant, stubborn, just,

as conscience of the injured Rus,

stoked down, killed or lassoed, being maimed.


And possible, first apprehension

touched Baty’s forehead – he was wrong,

Alas, if after his intension

Rus will revive anew, more strong.