They wiped your slate
With snow, you’re not alive.
Bayonets twenty-eight
And bullet-holes five.
It’s a bitter present,
Love, but I’ve sewed it.
Russia, an old peasant
Killing his meat.
Не бывать тебе в живых,
Со снегу не встать.
Двадцать восемь штыковых,
Огнестрельных пять.
Горькую обновушку
Другу шила я.
Любит, любит кровушку
Русская земля.
«No, I’m not Byron, I’m unknown; / I am, like him, a chosen one, / an exile hounded by this world — / only I bear a Russian soul. / An early start, an early end — / little indeed will I complete; / within my heart, as in a sea, / lie shattered hopes — a sunken load. / Grim ...»
«I'm not Byron, I've got another mind, / Outcast by people, alone, / I lost my roots and family and home, / I've got my soul of a Russian kind. / I earlier began my own breath / And soon I'll finish all my days, / My mind will make a little bit; / Deep in my heart a load lays / Of bro...»
«A year will come — of Russia’s blackest dread; / then will the crown fall from the royal head, / the throne of tsars will perish in the mud, / the food of many will be death and blood; / both wife and babe will vainly seek the law: / it will not shield the victims any more; / the put...»
«The year is coming, Russia’s year of dark, / The falling of the crown that year will mark; / When for the throne the serfs will lose the awe, / The food of many will be death and woe. / The rule of law will be disowned, and thence / Will shield no wives, nor children’s innocence; / P...»