Aleksandr Pushkin

Through the cool and wavy hazes 
Cuts the moon her slow way;
On the glades of sadness, endless,
Her distressing light she spays.

The exhausting winter road
Leads the troika, full of strength;
The light bell with one tone loaded,
Weary rings through all time’s length.

One can hear something native
In the coachman’s long songs –
Or a revel, superlative,
Or a soul’s sadness, strong.

Nor a light nor a dark house –
Wild and snow… On my way,
Just the striped versts arouse
And, this moment, run away. 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October 7, 2004