Oíer a sheer drop, up against the void, along the very border, I am lashing wayward horses with a horsewhip, urging on them: Getting somehow out of air, gulping wind and gobbling fog, Iím Sensing in a fatal rapture: Iím a goner, Iím a goner! Do slow down a little, horses! Do slow down just a bit! Donít obey a taut whip! Beg you, donít! Yet that the horses should have fallen so unruly to me, Short of time to live up, coming short with the song... I will water my steeds, I will finish the song, I will stand just a bit At the back of beyond... Should I die, a gale will sweep me off the hand flat like a feather, And the sleigh will drag me, racing by a snow plain at the daybreak. Donít you tear along, my horses, change to an unhurried canter! Just a little but prolong the journey to the final haven! Do slow down a little, horses! Do slow down just a bit! Heed you neither a whip nor a thong. Yet that the horses should have fallen so unruly to me, Short of time to live up, coming short with the song...... I will water my steeds, I will finish the song, I will stand just a bit At the back of beyond... Weíre on time: youíre never late to pay a visit to the Savior; Why are angels chanting up there with dispraising, angry yelling? If it is a harness bell thatís choking in a bitter wailing? If itís I whoís urging horses to pull up this headlong sleighing? Do slow down a little, horses! Do slow down just a bit! I beseech you to not fly headlong! Yet that the horses should have fallen so unruly to me, Since thereís no time to live, at least to finish the song... I will water my steeds, I will finish the song, I will stand just a bit At the back of beyond...
© Vyacheslav Chetin. Translation, 2009