Thereís a precipice beside me. On the brink of it Iím driving In a sleigh thatís pulled by horses - I am whipping, I am lashing; I drink mist and gulp the currents - hard against the wind Iím striving And enjoy a nasty feeling: ďThereís my end where I am dashing!Ē Donít you fly so fast, my horses, slow - to a trot not so brisk! Donít concede to the whip, to the thong! But my horses are so wayward, being so hard to please, Leaving me no time for a life, for a song... I will let horses drink, I will die in a wink, So before I might sink Let me sing On the brink... I will perish: like a feather off the hand I will be blown, In the sleigh my steeds will drag me on a bleak and cold morning... Donít you run so fast, my horses, slow down, make it slow! To my last resort donít hurry, please, prolong the final journey! Donít you fly so fast, my horses, slow - to a trot not so brisk! Donít concede to the whip, to the thong! But my horses are so wayward, being so hard to please, Leaving me no time for a life, for a song... I will let horses drink, I will die in a wink, So before I might sink Let me sing On the brink... You are never late arriving if you visit the Almighty, Why, then, are the angels singing with their voices, vexed and frightful? Or, perhaps, it is the harness bells so deep in sobbing drown, Or, perhaps, itís me whoís begging flying horses to slow down? Donít you fly so fast, my horses, slow - to a trot not so brisk! Donít concede to the whip, to the thong! But my horses are so wayward, being so hard to please, Leaving me no time for a life, for a song... I will let horses drink, I will die in a wink, So before I might sink Let me sing On the brink...
© George Tokarev. Translation, 2001
Edited by Robert Titterton