A year will come — for Russia a black year —
When the crown so many tsars have worn, will fall;
The mob will lose the love it had for them,
And multitudes will feed on blood and death.
The law, thrown over, will no longer shield
The little children and the chaste young wives;
And Plague from stinking bodies of the dead
Will roam the streets of mourning villages,
And silently call victims from their homes;
And Hunger’s teeth will tear at this poor land;
And reddening skies will make the rivers red.
On that day will appear a powerful man.
And you will know him, and will understand
Why in his grasp he holds a shining knife.
And woe to you! Your weeping and your groans
Will only make him laugh. And everything
About him will be frightening and dark,
Like his black cloak, beneath his towering brow.
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.
«I don’t know, I can’t explain... / Do I love or do I die? / Is it a dream or is it Verlaine? / Is it spell or a prison cell? Either the torment of the ideal / Or the beauty’s torment / Is spilled in the whole world / From a broken goblet. The dream might be wrong as well / Whe...»
«The din dies down. I enter from the wings. / Leaning inside the doorway to the stage, / I try and catch an echo in the distance, / A sense of what shall happen in my age. Thousands of theater glasses focus on me, / Turning on me the darkness of the night. / If it be in Thy power, Abba ...»
«Held captured and enraptured deeply, / I saw my dreams during the day, — / All saw me sleeping where I lay, / Nobody saw me tired and sleepy. And all because throughout the day, / The dreams were floating in my sight, / I can’t sleep now, and here I stay / And like a lonesome shadow...»
«Some — made of stone, others — of clay, — / But none of them sparkle like me! / Marina's my name, caprice is my way, / I'm the transient foam of the sea. Some — made of clay, others — of flesh, / For them, there are tombstones and graves... / I'm — baptized at sea, and bro...»