Andrei Bely
To my friends

He believed in a golden radiance,
And he died from the arrows of the sun.
He measured centuries with his thinking,
But could not live his life — this one.

Don’t laugh at the dead poet:
But come, bring him a wreath.
On the cross — winter, summer
There bangs my porcelain wreath.

Its flowers now are broken;
The icon faded gray.
Such heavy stones. I’m waiting
For someone to take them away.

He loved ringing bells and the sunset...
Only this...
Why is it so painful, so painful!
The fault is not his.

Have pity; come — think of me.
I’ll rush with my wreath toward you.
O love me — love me.
Perhaps I’m not dead... and I’ll wake anew
And come back!

Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks