What my breathing, what my looking is to bring today! Dense and viscous got the air before the thunders. What I hear and about what to sing, to say - Only birds from fairy tales, foretelling wonders. One is Sirin that joyfully smiles at me, Will amuse you, make merriment, boast, When the second strange birdís in the other tree, Always-sad breaking heart Alkonost. Like a magic seventh tune From the string will come to drop - Thatís the third bird Gamayun Is giving me a hope. In the blue sky with a needle-steeple stuporous There rings the bell made of copper-brass. Maybe spring on me it pours down, maybe spleen... Pure gold will ever shine on Russian cupolas - By the Savior of ours to be seen. Russ before me, an enigma, an Egyptian waste, Is mysterious and fabulous a country, - Sweet and sour or salty-bitter - rich in taste, Full of fields and water, blue and rye, and sundry. Horses drown on slushy and slimy roads Chopping thru the mud, greasy and deep, But they drag me round Motherland slumberous That got listless, got swollen from sleep. Like a sacred seventh Moon, In my way a hanging globe - Thatís the third bird Gamayun Is giving me a hope. On the soul over tempered in a tempest grim, Soul rubbed away in a tempo stream, - If itís bleeding of all sorrows, gotten thin - I lay patches overlap with golden tapestry By the Savior of ours to be seen.
© Natalia Tverskova. Translation, 2011