Upon a horse-sleigh laid to brim with straw
And covered barely with hides and birch,
We rode around the lumbering Moscow
From Sparrow Hills to a familiar church.
On Uglich street the kids are playing babki
And from a stove exudes bread's sweet smell
Through street without a hat they take me
Three candles burn in tower near a bell.
Not just three candles burned, but three encounters,
One of them God had blessed and known
Forth did not happen — and the Rome still further —
And never did he love the ancient Rome.
The sled was diving into blackened snowdunes
And from the darkness people poured like weeds.
Thin peasant men and hateful-looking women
Right at the gate were separating seeds.
The distance, wet, had blackened with birds' trails,
And hands tied down inside the sleigh grew tired.
They drive the prince — the body numbs and pales —
And then they set the orange straw on fire.