What will I enjoy today, what will be pestering? The airís thick before the storm, thick with bale. Whatíll be pleasant for me to sing, good for hearing? Prophetic birds are singing - yet all out of a tale! The bird of Sirin is joyfully grinning, Calling me to come, invites - be a host. On the other side a birdie is grieving: Hurting soul of mine is odd Alkanost. As if seven cherished strings Have started singing one by one - It is Gamayun brings Hope to someone. In the blue sky pierced up by bell - towers - There a brass bell tolls, a brass bell tolls! Either overjoyed or crossed has it got? Gold plated domes in Russia are just showers: For more often to be noticed by the God. I stand in front of would be eternal mystery, In front of the great and an improbable land, Which is salted and sweet - sour - bitterly, Blue-skied, fresh sprigged and rye sensed. Squelching through the mud, fatty moreover, The horses are sinking stirrups deep, Yet theyíre dragging me by the sloppy power, Which is swollen, limped, tired of a sleep. As if seven holy moons Are rising over my way - Itís the bird of Gamajun Assures for what I pray! My soul put out by losses and ventures, The soul rubbed by cascades of mishmashes - If the blood would appear through its skin, - Will be patched up by me with gold patches - By the Lord for more often to be seen...
© Vyacheslav Chistyakov. Translation, 2009