Aleksandr Pushkin

Let a bard, with his hired cup of incense,
Runs aft the skirts of happiness and buzz,
I’m feared of light; goes by my dark existence,
Known by none on its ov’rgrown path.
Let choir of singers, with their praises, roaring,
Give immortality to many a half-god,
My voice is still; with loud string and boring,
I will not stir my always mute abode.
And let ovids sing love in each their ode,
I’m robbed of peace by shadow Tsitereya’s,
Cupids don’t send me happy days’ a lot:
I sing a sleep – the great gift from Morpheus;
I’ll well-teach you, how, in a silent grip,
To lie in peace in a strong and pleasant sleep.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April 6, 2005