How Iíll see it now, how Iíll breathe it in? Air is harsh before the lightning, harsh and choking. How Iíll hear it all today, how I will sing. From the fairy tales the wise birds are singing. The bird Sirin is joyfully grinning, Making happy, calling from nests. And against him is now despairing, Wounds the soul the strange Alkonost. Just like seven promised strings Ring without stop - Thus the bird Gamayun Imparting hope! In the blue sky, pierced with belltowers, Copper bell, copper bell, Will be joyful or will be sore. Russian cupolas are dressed in pure gold That the good Lord would notice them more. I stand, like before an timeless mystery, Before great and fairy-tale country. Before salty - bitter - sweet and sour land Blue, spring-water, and full of rye. Eating dirt fat till the rust, Horses go down till stirrups, But they pull me with sleepy great power That has rotted, bloated from sleep. Just like seven promised strings Ring without stop - Thus the bird Gamayun Imparting hope! The soul, beaten with losses and sorrows, The soul, torn till itís narrow, If till blood the cloth has been worn, I will patch with the golden patches That the good Lord will notice it more.
© Ilya Shambat. Translation, ?