Aleksandr Pushkin

Again clouds of the mute heavens
Came together o’er my head;
And again the karma, envious, 
Threatens me with future’s bad…
Should I scorn all fate’s intentions?
Should I bear her against
The great stubbornness and patience
Of my proud youthful years?

By my stormy living tired, 
I, indifferent, wait for storms:
Maybe, I’d, once more saved out,
Find a harbor in my roams.
But divining separation –
That appalling, fateful trice –
I squeeze your hand with such passion
As if this time were the last.

Merciful and peaceful angel,
Softly tell me ‘fare you well’,
Just be sad: let your look, gentle,
Gently rise or gently fell;
And this charming recollection,
In my heart, will hold a place
Of the strengths, pride, expectations
And imprudence of young years.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October 6, 2004