Through a precipice, along à chasm, by the very edge I whip my horses, lash, and drive them. Somehow air is short. I drink wind, gulp fog. I sense with ruinous delight: I am lost, I am lost! A bit slower, horses, a bit slower! Don’t heed my taught whip! But somehow such horses came to me: fastidious ones. And to live long I wasn’t able, and finish singing I won’t be able. I will water the horses, I will sing the couplet to the end. But a moment more I will stand on the edge.                     We came on time: to God there are no late comings. And why do angels there sing with such fierce voices, Or has this bell completely lost irself from sobbing? Or will I cry to the horses, so that the sleigh wouldn’t go so fast? A bit slower, horses, a bit slower! I implore you to gallop, not to fly! But somehow such horses came to me: fastidious ones. So while I won’t live long, at least I can sing to the end! I will water the horses, I will sing the couplet to the end. But a moment more I will stand on the edge.
© Artemy Troitsky. Translation, ?