Alexander Pushkin
Memory

When the noisy day quiets down
and the translucent shadow of night descends
on the muted streets of the city,
sleep–the reward for the day’s works – is granted to normal men.
But for me, agonizing hours of insomnia
drag by in silence.
In the dead stillness my conscience burns more painfully,
like a snake bite;
fantasies churn; my mind,
weighed down with sadness,
gives way to a throng of oppressive thoughts;
memory silently unrolls its scroll:
filled with revulsion, I read the story of my life,
and tremble and curse,
and bitterly complain, and weep bitter tears,
but I can’t wipe away the miserable lines.

Translated by Jenny Wade