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.
«What's friendship? The hangover's languid burn, / restless talk of being spurned, / swapping vanity, slacking / or the shame of a patron’s backing.»
«An artist in the canvas trousers once / By pure chance sat down on color palette, / Then jumped, confused, not feeling lucky bunce: / "Where's turpentine? Let's wipe it while it's still wet!" / / But having closely looked at rainbow hues, / In trance from the creative intuition tether, ...»
«The moon relinquished sharp-edge cliffs at sea line, / And with transparent gold: the waters shine; / On board of their pointed boat, this evening / The friends enjoy their heated glass of wine. When looking at the clouds passing swiftly / Through the reflection of the moonlight post; / S...»
«Unapproachable, usually shy, / You are now like fire, all burning / Let me lock your unusual sight / In the poem of love I am saying. Look, how perfectly changed with the lamp / Is the hovel, and wall, even window / Our figures are covered with shade / Which is gentle like night in the ...»