Aleksandr Pushkin

When, for the mortal one, is stilled the noisy day,
   And, on the silent city’s buildings,
The easy shadow of night is softly laid,
   And sleep – the prize for daily grindings,
Then in the silent air they painfully drag on –
   My hours, sleepless ones and endless:
Bites of the remorse-snake, in my heart, stronger burn
   In night’s unquestionable blankness.
My fancies boil. My mind, under a pine,
   Is overfilled with meditations;
Remembrance silently, before sad eyes of mine,
   Unrolls its scroll in lines’ successions.
And reading with despite the life, I had before,
   I curse the world, and tremble, breathless,
And bitterly complain, and shed my tears sore,
   But don’t wash out the lines of sadness.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November 7, 2003