The shudder’s passed, sure enough, - Now - to the top! The fear has dropped to a gulf, For ever dropped. No need to have a halt, I keep To upward, and Believe that there’s not a peak You can’t ascend. Among all paths disguised from sights My road must be, Among all not yet scaled heights One is for me! The snows here keep hidden names Of them who fell. Among all not yet paved ways The one I’ll tell. With clear ice of bluish tints The slope is lit, But secrets of bygone footprints The granite hid... I look into my dream above The heads of herds, And still believe in pureness of White snows and words. A lot of time might well be passed - I’ll not forget How here I gave up at last To hesitate, How this day water urged: “Pick Own way to go!”... And I’ll recall: “That day of week Was Wednesday though!”...
© Vyacheslav Chistyakov. Translation, 2016