Konstantin Balmont

Yes, I’m the Chosen, The Wise One, The Enlightened,
The Bard – a son of sun, The King – a son of mind.
But I’m bred by my clan, and spirit mine is blighted – 
The savage with tattoo, made by his fathers, blind.

The frightful ornaments are cut, so deep and heavy,
I’m to wash out them – my mind whispers me ‘stop’,
And with wild craziness into the nets of evil,
With gladness, I make jump like wolf on antelope.

But having fed the Fair, its broil and shame its own,
I plainly feel again the sacred strengths’ effect,
And having killed some one with roughly filed a stone,
I desperately call for him to resurrect.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October 2, 2001