To V. Zlobin
I roar — a dying lion...
D’ you see all this, my God!
Between machine’s teeth iron,
My flesh is being deformed.
I’ll bear pains my own…
But would I — all, I feel?
All that in systems goes on,
Between the clogs of wheels?
В. Злобину
Кричу — и крик звериный…
Суди меня Господь!
Меж зубьями машины
Моя скрежещет плоть.
Своё — стерплю в гордыне…
Но все? Но если все?
Терпеть, что все в машине?
В зубчатом колесе?
«I know a rock in a highland's ravine, / On which only eagles might ever be seen, / But a black wooden cross o'er a precipice reigns, / It rots and it ages from tempests and rains. And many years have gone without any hints, / From times when it was seen from faraway hills. / And its every...»
«Yes, I like you, my knife of damask pledge, / My friend so bright and so cold, / A thoughtful Georgian forged you for his revenge, / A free Circassian then sharpened for a row. You had been trusted me by lily-like a hand — / A sign for memory — in time of separation, / And now no bl...»
«The Bard is killed! The honor's striver / Fell, slandered by a gossip's dread, / With lead in breast and vengeful fire, / Drooped with his ever-proud head. / The Poet's soul did not bear / The shameful hurts of low breed, / He fought against the worldly "faire," / Alone as always, ......»
«A poet's dead — entrapped by honour, / Felled by slanderous rumours spread — / A bullet in the breast, with vengeful anger, / He bowed at last his noble head. / His soul could not endure the legions / Of trifling insults and their shame, / He stood against the world's opinions, / A...»