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 putrid, rotting plague will mow and cut
and boldly walk the road from hut to hut;
in people’s sight its pallid face will float,
and hunger’s hand will clutch them by the throat;
a scarlet sea will send its bloody surge;
a mighty man will suddenly emerge:
you’ll recognize the man, you’ll feel
that he has come to use a knife of steel;
oh, dreadful day! Your call, your groan, your prayer
will only make him laugh at your despair;
and everything in his forbidding sight —
his brow, his cloak — will fill the land with fright.
Настанет год, России черный год,
Когда царей корона упадет;
Забудет чернь к ним прежнюю любовь,
И пища многих будет смерть и кровь;
Когда детей, когда невинных жен
Низвергнутый не защитит закон;
Когда чума от смрадных, мертвых тел
Начнет бродить среди печальных сел,
Чтобы платком из хижин вызывать,
И станет глад сей бедный край терзать;
И зарево окрасит волны рек:
В тот день явится мощный человек,
И ты его узнаешь — и поймешь,
Зачем в руке его булатный нож:
И горе для тебя! — твой плач, твой стон
Ему тогда покажется смешон;
И будет всё ужасно, мрачно в нем,
Как плащ его с возвышенным челом.
«"Why is the moon shining so dimly / on the gardens and walls of Horossan? / As if I'm walking the Russian plain / Under the rustling mantle of the fog", — I asked that dear Lala, / Of the silent cypress at night, / But my host didn't whisper a word, / But rather raised their proud hea...»
«Silly heart, don't beat! / We are all deceived by happiness, / Only the beggar asks for sympathy... / Sily heart, don't beat. The yellow charms of the half moon / Are pouring by the chesnuts in the glade. / Bending to Lala on shalvari, / I'll hide under the veil. / Silly heart, don't ...»
«Blue and merry land. / My honor is sold for a song. / Wind from the sea, blow quieter — / Do you hear, the nightingale is calling the rose? Do you hear the roses bending — / The song will return to the heart. / Wind from the sea, blow quieter — / Do you hear, the nightingale is ca...»
«to A. Sakharov That hurricane has passed. Few of have survived. / At the roll call of friendship many are absent. / Again I have returned to the deserted land, / Where I have not been for eight years. Who shall I call? With whom can I share / The melancholy joy, that I stayed alive? / Th...»