Alexander Blok
Voice from the Chorus

We weep, how often, I and you,
Over our lives’ poor pitiful ways, —
But if, my friends, we only knew
The cold and gloom of coming days!

To-day your darling’s hand you press,
You played with her and smiled;
You weep to find untruthfulness,
Or in your hands a knife caress,
Poor child, poor child!

There is no end to craft or lies;
No sign of death appears.
A blacker light will blind the eyes,
And madder planets sweep the skies
For years, for years!

The last age shall be worst of all,
And you and I shall see
The sky wrapped in a guilty pall;
Laughter on lips shall freeze and fall, —
Anguish of Not-to-be. . . .

You wait for spring, my child, but none
Will greet your eyes.
To heaven you call out for the sun, —
No sun will rise.
You cry, but crying, like a stone,
Falls down and dies.

Be happy with your lives and ways, —
Stiller than water, low as grass.
Oh if we knew what comes to pass,
The cold and gloom of coming days!

Translated by Cecil Maurice Bowra