2
At midnight, You and I, halted in the steppe:
No returning, no looking back.
The swans, beyond the Nepryadva, cried,
and again and again, they cry…
On our road — the white burning stone.
beyond the river — the pagan horde.
Over our host the shining banner
will never again flutter brightly.
And, bending her head towards the ground,
my friend speaks: ‘Sharpen your sword,
So you will not fight the Tartars in vain,
and lay down your life for the holy cause!’
I — I am not the first warrior, nor the last,
the Motherland’s illness will be long.
So pray for your beloved in the dawn
O my wife, fair and bright!
2
Мы, сам-друг, над степью в полночь стали:
Не вернуться, не взглянуть назад.
За Непрядвой лебеди кричали,
И опять, опять они кричат…
На пути — горючий белый камень.
За рекой — поганая орда.
Светлый стяг над нашими полками
Не взыграет больше никогда.
И, к земле склонившись головою,
Говорит мне друг: «Остри свой меч,
Чтоб недаром биться с татарвою,
За святое дело мёртвым лечь!»
Я — не первый воин, не последний,
Долго будет родина больна.
Помяни ж за раннею обедней
Мила друга, светлая жена!
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«In crystal swampland there is such a violence! / Beyond, Sienian mountains stand sky-clad, / Gothic cathedrals of the rocks gone mad / Hang in the air, where there is fur and silence. From hanging staircases of kings and prophets / Organ descends, filled with the holy ghost, / Barking of ...»
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