Oh what a night! There’s biting frost,
There are no clouds on the coast;
The azure arch, a woven plaid,
Is dazzled with the frequent stars.
All homes are dark. And every gate
Is safely locked with bolts and bars.
And all is peaceful as of late.
At last, the marketplace is calm,
The guarding dog just barks alone,
And with the loud chains it rumbles.
While all of Moscow’s dead in slumber,
The restlessness of fear forgetting.
The square, in murkiness of night,
Stands filled with yesterday’s beheading.
The torture’s imprints still abide:
Where with a blade a man was struck,
Where there are pitchforks, where there are
The cooled off cauldrons filled with tar;
Where there are tumbled over blocks;
And metal teeth are sticking out,
And bones with ashes are consumed,
Upon the stakes, above the ground,
Dead bodies darken from the fume...
Not long ago, fresh blood was sliding
Pigmenting snow along the way
And languid moans were rising, rising,
But death embraced them, tranquilizing,
And overtook her easy prey.
Who’s there? Whose horse is it that’s speeding
Across the gloomy square to fight?
Whose blaring whistle, loud speaking
Is heard in twilight of the night?
Who is he? – Overfilled with greed.
The brave one hurries to his date,
By his desire made irate
He pleads: “My valiant, intrepid steed,
Fly like an arrow at full speed!
Oh faster, faster!...” The ardent horse
Just swings its mane, and comes to pause.
In gloominess, between the posts
Upon the long and wooden crossbeam,
A corpse is swaying. And the horseman
Is ready to advance and cross,
But for some reason under lashes
The steed just sniffs and snorts and rushes
Back. “Where to?! Ahead, ahead!
What is with you! What is to dread?
We rode here yesterday at night,
Wasn’t it us who stomped with pride,
Inflamed with vengeance from afar,
The evil traitors of the czar?
Remember, it's their blood we used
To wash and clean your steely hooves?!
Have you forgotten all, with spite?
My daring steed, this is your course
Now gallop, fly...” The tired horse,
Beneath the corpse, begins her stride.
Какая ночь! Мороз трескучий,
На небе ни единой тучи;
Как шитый полог, синий свод
Пестреет частыми звездами.
В домах всё темно. У ворот
Затворы с тяжкими замками.
Везде покоится народ;
Утих и шум, и крик торговый;
Лишь только лает страж дворовый
Да цепью звонкою гремит.
И вся Москва покойно спит,
Забыв волнение боязни.
А площадь в сумраке ночном
Стоит, полна вчерашней казни.
Мучений свежий след кругом:
Где труп, разрубленный с размаха,
Где столп, где вилы; там котлы.
Остывшей полные смолы;
Здесь опрокинутая плаха;
Торчат железные зубцы,
С костями груды пепла тлеют,
На кольях, скорчась, мертвецы
Оцепенелые чернеют…
[Недавно кровь со всех сторон
Струею тощей снег багрила,]
И подымался томный стон,
Но смерть коснулась к ним, как сон,
Свою добычу захватила.
Кто там? Чей конь во весь опор
По грозной площади несется?
Чей свист, чей громкий разговор
Во мраке ночи раздается?
Кто сей? — Кромешник удалой.
Спешит, летит он на свиданье,
В его груди кипит желанье.
Он говорит: «Мой конь лихой,
Мой верный конь! лети стрелой!
Скорей, скорей!…» Но конь ретивый
Вдруг размахнул плетеной гривой
И стал. Во мгле между столпов
На перекладине дубовой
Качался труп. Ездок суровый
Под ним промчаться был готов,
Но борзый конь под плетью бьется,
Храпит, и фыркает, и рвется
Назад. «Куда? мой конь лихой!
Чего боишься? Что с тобой?
Не мы ли здесь вчера скакали,
Не мы ли яростно топтали,
Усердной местию горя,
Лихих изменников царя?
Не их ли кровию омыты
Твои булатные копыты!
Теперь ужель их не узнал?
Мой борзый конь, мой конь удалый,
Несись, лети!…» И конь усталый
В столбы проскакал.
«Wake as you will, but wake in me, — / in the cold, in the voiceless depths of me. I will not beg for words, but give / me a sign that you are still alive. Not for long — just a moment of your time. / If not a verse, just a sigh, just a cry. Just a whisper or just a moan. / Just t...»
«But I keep remembering one of them, / that first spring of the blockade… / / How many rusty beds and bunks / littered the streets those days! / They hunched down among the ruins / senselessly trying to screen them. / Their sombre, bony dance twirled / everywhere the ground was bei...»
«When I set out my mother gave me / a little ikon depicting Silence. / Dumbly desperate now, for long / it has had no work beseeching god. / / And the blessed angel of Silence / watched over me jealously. / Twice – and it was no accident – / he turned me from the path. He knew…...»
«I still believe that I shall return to life, / shall wake early one day, at dawn, / in the light, early hours, in the transparent dew, / where the branches are studded with drops, / and a small lake stands in the sundew’s bowl, / reflecting the swift flight of the clouds. / And, inclin...»