Alexander Blok
The Kite

High up, above the sleepy world,
The kite flies round drawing circles
And watching the deserted wold.
At home the mom her sunny suckles:
«Now take it, suck the breast, be good,
Grow, bear your cross of babyhood».

The years fly over, full of drama,
With wars and villages aflame,
But you, my land, are much the same
In all antiquity and glamour.
When will the mother stop deploring?
When will the kite give over hov'ring?

Translated by Alec Vagapov