Pavel Antokolsky

Let her - vanished from here -
By undertakers, wit,
Be buried, to Shakespeare,
Amidst the empty field,
Where is bitter and raw
An autumnal leaf-fall.
Let dead Yorick else glow
With his grin at this all.   

And to voice of the nature,
Let him – pale, no a beard,
Smote out by rapture – 
Have not any right word.
Let the dead king’s ailed soul, 
Often argue with him…
It’s the single fighting role
On a scene – not a whim.

You could read this tale now
In the poet’s book, great,
Give the one low bow
To the poet for that.
Let the tale be not covered,
But displayed all its height!
Its all sense isn’t yet found,
Tho’ it’s simple and bright. 

Hamlet, our comrade,
Not a penny you’ve saved, 
But you can’t be made old,
And your soul – be failed.
It was not false or silent,
Didn’t please foes’ men.
I’ll be helpful and ardent,
When you start all again!


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2000