The capitals are rocked with thunder
Of orators in wordy feuds.
But in the depths of Russia, yonder,
An age-old awful silence broods.
Only the wind in wayside willows,
Coming and going, does not cease;
And corn-stalks touch in curving billows
The earth that cherishes and pillows,
Through endless fields of changeless peace.
В столицах шум, гремят витии,
Кипит словесная война,
А там, во глубине России, –
Там вековая тишина.
Лишь ветер не дает покою
Вершинам придорожных ив,
И выгибаются дугою,
Целуясь с матерью землею,
Колосья бесконечных нив...
«Covered with a glory that had lost it luster, / Ringed by cretins, tricksters, hypocrites, / The two-headed eagle1 did not fall in battle / But died a horrible, degraded death. Grinning, one man said: "He made it!" / Another sobbed: "Lord, forgive..." / But no one guessed it was a stuffe...»
«Spring said nothing to me — it couldn't. / Perhaps it was at a loss for words. / But down the murky length of the station / Lights came fleetingly to life. Only, from the platform someone greeted / Someone in the dark blue night. / Only, on my miserable head / A crown shone faintly.»
«They'll not exterminate you now, / As that mad leader dreamt they might. / Fate or God may lend a hand, / But the Russian man is tired... Tired of suffering, of vainglory — / It's time to enjoy oblivion. / Tired of rushing blindly forward — / It's time, perhaps, for demolition... ....»
«I imagine everything wrapped in a beatific mist: / Statues, arches, gardens, flowerbeds. / The dark waves of the lovely river... Once the memories start to flow, / it means ... But perhaps all this is nonsense. Like a wild beast from its lair, crouching, / Sick, I crawl into the cold of Pa...»