Believe it. This fever that weakens me
like loss of blood, wasn’t caused by the sting
of a serpent’s poison tooth.
In a white and a wintry field,
on a white and wintry day,
I became a shy girl who tries to sing back love
in the voice of a little lost bird
There’s been no path back for a long time now,
every other road is closed,
my prince, my tsaryevich, is in his tall fortress,
his kremlin. Is there any way
I can trick him into loving me again?
I don’t know how. All I do know
is that life on this earth is a cheat.
No forgetting how he came to take his leave of me.
I didn’t cry. It was fate.
Now I cast nightly spells so he’ll dream of me.
My magic has no power.
That’s why he sleeps so easily,
troubled by nothing, and I’m out here
staring at his high barred gates—
or has a sirin perched above his bed,
a sirin, half-woman, half-bird,
with a tender expression in her shining eyes—
the sirin’s proper roost is that famous tree in Eden,
she’s only seen by happy people.
Who hears her song forgets all else.
Surely some such bird
has already taken my place,
and is singing my tsaryevich her siren song.
Ты поверь, не змеиное острое жало
А тоска мою выпила кровь.
В белом поле я тихою девушкой стала,
Птичьим голосом кличу любовь.
И давно мне закрыта дорога иная,
Мой царевич в высоком кремле,
Обману ли его, обману ли? — Не знаю!
Только ложью живу на земле.
Не забыть, как пришел он со мною проститься
Я не плакала; это судьба.
Ворожу, чтоб царевичу ночью присниться,
Но бессильна моя ворожба.
Оттого ль его сон безмятежен и мирен,
Что я здесь у закрытых ворот,
Иль уже светлоокая, нежная Сирин
Над царевичем песню поет?