Elegy

Extinguished gaiety of years, which sunk in madness,
Presses on me like a hangover restless.
But in my sole, foregoing pine
Becomes through time still stronger, like a wine.
My way is sad. Predicts me toile and woe –
The sea of future in a wrath and row.

But, oh, my friends, I do not want to die;
I want to live for reasoning and trial;
I know, it will come – my satisfaction
Amidst the troubles, grieves and agitation:
Sometimes I’ll sink in harmony again,
Or wet my thought with tears of joy and pain.
And maybe, else, to my nightfall, in darkness
Will love smile farewell with her former brightness.


Alexander Puschkin (1799-1837)

My used ignorance

My used ignorance--in an instant
Was shaken by the demon's hand,
And he combined my poor existence
With his existence to the end.
His evil eyes became my own,
I gain poor treasure of the worlds,
My heart was beating in a tone
With indistinguishable words.
I'd looked at all with look that's clear,
And I was shocked by what I'd seen;
Whether such world could once appear
As great and beautiful to me?
What, a young dreamer, looked you for
In such a world, with utter fervor,
For whom, with all your heart before,
You were not shamed to pray forever?
And I looked at the people, else:
The 'judges' of the lowest level --
So cruel, lofty, biased, base --
The fools that always drift to evil.
Before these ever-frightened hosts,
So vain, and cold, and full of vengeance,
The voice of truth is simply lost,
And helpless -- knowledge of the ages.
You're right, the ever-witty nations,
A call for freedom is asleep!
Herds needn't freedom's innovations,
They have to be just cut and stripped,
Their heritage for generations --
The yoke with joker's bells and whip.

Day's rain is done

Day's rain is done. The rainy mist of night
Spreads on the sky, leaden apparel wearing,
And through the pine-trees, like a ghost appearing,
The moon comes up with hidden light.
All in my soul drags me to dark surrender.
There, far away, rises the moon in splendour.
There all the air is drunk with evening heat,
There move the waters in a sumptuous heat,
And overhead the azure skies...
It is the hour. From high hills she has gone
To sea-shores flooding in the waves' loud cries;
There, where the holy cliffs arise,
Now she sits melancholy and alone...
Alone... Before her none is weeping, fretting,
None, on his knees, is kissing her, forgetting;
Alone... To no one's lips is she betraying
Her shoulders, her wet lips, her snow-white bosom.

No one is worthy of her heavenly love.
'Tis true?... Alone... You weep... I do not move.

Yet if...

Alexander Puschkin (1799 - 1837)