Aleksandr Pushkin

I went through all my former wishes,
I stopped to love my former dreams;
In my poor soul stays affliction --
Result of empty-heart disease.

Under the fate's fiendish tempests,
My wreath of flowers had waned --
I live alone with my sadness,
And wait: when will come my end?

Like, when a snowstorm is whistling,
Alone, on the bare twigs,
The latest leaf is sadly twisting
Under the cold's deadly stings.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 1999
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, August, 2000