Alexander Blok
Russia

Three shabby straps begin to flutter
Like in the golden years again,
And sticking in the slushy gutter
The motley spokes can hardly gain.

Oh Russia, wretched Russia, dear,
Your houses, so grey and rough,
Your songs that blow, up in the air,
Appear as clear as tears of love.

I'm bearing my cross, my dear,
Shall I feel sorry? Well, I won't...
Just give your beauty, so austere,
To any sorcerer, you want.

He will deceive you and ensnare, —
Yet you won't perish, nor get lost.
And only burdened mind and care
Will hide your charm beneath the frost.

Well, now... It's just another care,
A teardrop in the stream again,
With plains and forests here and there,
With figured wimples, — you're the same.

Now all is possible this instance,
And easy is the road that lies
When from the kerchief, in the distance,
I see the flashing light of eyes,
When in a cautious gloomy tone
Resounds the coacher's hollow song!..

Translated by Alec Vagapov