Let me go; set me free of my shackles!
In the dark, when commotion subsides,
I'm dying; I'm drained by the battles
Within dreams of you, flowing like tides.
Let the ones who at will have abandoned
Their motherland wail and complain,
They're on top; I've already descended —
Don't you dare approach me again.
I'll abandon the books I revere;
I'm ready to live in a cave;
So that you from my dreams disappear,
Every dream I'm ready to waive.
And degrade my own self to damnation,
Drop my name and be stripped to the bone,
For the dialect of any nation
Trade my tongue — the last asset I own.
For this sacrifice, Russia, through tears
through the grass on my parents' tombs,
through the memories of my young years,
through the catkins of birch trees in bloom,
Don't you look at me; I beg for mercy;
In this pit all is burnt to the core,
It is void; your blind search is unworthy.
Don't you try my past life to restore!
It's too late; years, ages have vanished,
For the shame and the grief in my soul,
For its torment — no one will be punished,
And no one will be ever absolved.
Отвяжись, я тебя умоляю!
Вечер страшен, гул жизни затих.
Я безпомощен. Я умираю
От слепых наплываний твоих.
Тот, кто вольно отчизну покинул,
Волен выть на вершинах о ней,
Но теперь я спустился в долину,
И теперь приближаться не смей.
Навсегда я готов затаиться
И без имени жить. Я готов,
Чтоб с тобой и во снах не сходиться,
Отказаться от всяческих снов;
Обезкровить себя, искалечить,
Не касаться любимейших книг,
Променять на любое наречье
Всё что есть у меня, — мой язык.
Но зато, о Россия, сквозь слёзы,
Сквозь траву двух несмежных могил,
Сквозь дрожащие пятна берёзы,
Сквозь всё то, чем я смолоду жил,
Дорогими слепыми глазами
Не смотри на меня, пожалей,
Не ищи в этой угольной яме,
Не нащупывай жизни моей!
Ибо годы прошли и столетья,
И за горе, за му́ку, за стыд, —
Поздно, поздно! — никто не ответит,
И душа никому не простит.
«I have got but one only fun left: / Fingers mouthed, and a whistle of cheer. / An ill fame has swept o’er that I am / A vulgarian, a debauchee. Ah, how paltry, how trifling the waste is! / Trifling losses are plenty around. / Having had faith in God is shameful. / Having no faith is ...»
«Out-up is a crescent; down, a wind is blowing. / Settling poplar wool is silvery and glowing. Far ‘talianka* sobbing, solitary descant, / Is so sweetly homey and so sadly distant. Crafty runs now giggle, now burst out crying. / Where are you, my linden? Age ol' mine, where are you? Once, ...»
«The grove of golden trees has fallen silent, / Shorn of its gay leaves, in mute silhouette, / And so the cranes in sad file past it flying / Have no cause any more to feel regret. For whom, for what? We are all rovers, starting / Out, coming home awhile, then traveling on. / The hemp fiel...»
«The golden birch-tree grove has fallen silent / Its merry chatter having stopped afore, / The cranes up there flying over, sullen, / Have nobody to pity any more. Whom should they pity? Each is just a trotter. / One comes and goes and leaves for good again. / The moon and hempen bus...»