Alexander Pushkin


When, for the mortal one, is stilled the noisy day, And, on the silent city’s buildings, The easy shadow of night is softly laid, And sleep – the prize for daily grindings, Then in the silent air they painfully drag on – My hours, sleepless ones and endless: Bites of the remorse-snake, in my heart, stronger burn In night’s unquestionable blankness. My fancies boil. My mind, under a pine, Is overfilled with meditations; Remembrance silently, before sad eyes of mine, Unrolls its scroll in lines’ successions. And reading with despite the life, I had before, I curse the world, and tremble, breathless, And bitterly complain, and shed my tears sore, But don’t wash out the lines of sadness. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

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