Maximilian Voloshin
In the bottomless pit

In memory of A. Blok and N. Gumilyov

Day by day more brutal and more savage,
Deathly horror holds the night in thrall.
Putrid winds extinguish lives like candles.
No more strength to scream, to help, to call.
Dark the destiny of Russian poets
And inscrutable the roads they trod:
Pushkin stood before a dueling pistol,
Dostoevsky faced the firing squad.
I shall draw my lot and know my fortune,
Bitter Russia, fierce infanticide:
I may slip on blood outside the dungeon,
Or may perish wretchedly inside,
But your Golgotha I never will abandon,
And your graves shall never be denied.
Whether slain by hunger or by hatred —
I shall choose no other lot instead:
If we die, then let us die together,
And arise like Lazarus from the dead.

Translated by Yakov Hornstein