The river spreads out. It flows, sorrowful, lazy
And washes the banks.
Above the bare clay of the yellow cliff
Haystacks languish on the steppe.
O my Rus! My wife! Our long path
Is painfully clear!
Our path has pierced our breast like an arrow
Of ancient Tatar will.
Our path leads through the steppe, through endless yearning,
Through your yearning, O Rus!
And I do not even fear the darkness
Of night beyond the border.
Let night come. We will speed to our goal, light up
The steppe with campfires.
In the smoky reaches a holy banner will shine
Along with the Khan's steel sabre...
And the battle is eternal! We can only dream of peace
Through blood and dust...
The mare of the steppe flies on and on
And tramples the steppe grass...
And there is no end! the miles and slopes flash by...
Stop!
The frightened thunderheads approach,
The sunset bleeds!
The sunset bleeds! Blood streams from the heart!
Weep, heart, weep.
There is no peace! The mare of the steppe
Flies at full gallop!
Река раскинулась. Течет, грустит лениво
И моет берега.
Над скудной глиной желтого обрыва
В степи грустят стога.
О, Русь моя! Жена моя! До боли
Нам ясен долгий путь!
Наш путь - стрелой татарской древней воли
Пронзил нам грудь.
Наш путь - степной, наш путь - в тоске безбрежной -
В твоей тоске, о, Русь!
И даже мглы - ночной и зарубежной -
Я не боюсь.
Пусть ночь. Домчимся. Озарим кострами
Степную даль.
В степном дыму блеснет святое знамя
И ханской сабли сталь...
И вечный бой! Покой нам только снится
Сквозь кровь и пыль...
Летит, летит степная кобылица
И мнет ковыль...
И нет конца! Мелькают версты, кручи...
Останови!
Идут, идут испуганные тучи,
Закат в крови!
Закат в крови! Из сердца кровь струится!
Плачь, сердце, плачь...
Покоя нет! Степная кобылица
Несется вскачь!
«In the valley the birches are bored. / On the meadows, fog billows and weighs. / Sodden, with horse-dung floored, / The highroad blackens in haze. Rich on the steppe's sleepy air, / The odor of freshly-baked bread. / Bent to their packs, slowly fare / Two beggars to look for a bed. Rou...»
«I'm a plain girl, whose hands are stained with earth. / He is a fisherman he's gay and keen. / The far white sail is drowning in the firth. / Many the seas and rivers he has seen. The women of the Bosphorus, they say, / Are good-looking . . . and I—I'm lean and black. / The white sail d...»
«Black goats I herded with my sister; they / Grazed by red rocks; the grass rose stiff and stinging. / Warming their backs, stones to the foot-hills clinging / Slept dumbly on. And sheer blue shone the bay. / By the gnarled silver of an olive flinging / My drowsy limbs, in its dry shade I l...»
«From the walls the paper's blue is vanished, / The daguerreotypes, the ikons banished. / Only there the deepened blue appears / Where these hid it, hanging through the years. From the heart the memory is perished, / Perished all that long ago it cherished! / Those remain, of whom death hi...»