Aleksandr Pushkin

The raven to the ravens flies,
The raven to the raven cries,
   “Where is our dinner, raven,
   Under this indifferent heaven?”

The second bird cries to the first,
“We can find such a place, of course:
   By a broom on wide field’s ground,
   The killed knight is lying now.

Who’s killer and why did he this,
Well-knows just a falcon his,
   And his faithful black a mare,
   And his wife, the young and fair.

His falcon to the grove fled,
His foe seated in his saddle,
   Just his wife waits for her dear –
   Hopes he’ll alive come here.” 
 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November 9, 2003