Alexander Pushkin


Again clouds of the mute heavens Came together o’er my head; And again the karma, envious, Threatens me with future’s bad… Should I scorn all fate’s intentions? Should I bear her against The great stubbornness and patience Of my proud youthful years? By my stormy living tired, I, indifferent, wait for storms: Maybe, I’d, once more saved out, Find a harbor in my roams. But divining separation – That appalling, fateful trice – I squeeze your hand with such passion As if this time were the last. Merciful and peaceful angel, Softly tell me ‘fare you well’, Just be sad: let your look, gentle, Gently rise or gently fell; And this charming recollection, In my heart, will hold a place Of the strengths, pride, expectations And imprudence of young years. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

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