To Pushkin

Of mighty talent stand I musing, Of one who stands for Russia's fate, Tverskóy Boulevard perusing, I stand and with myself I prate. My hair is fair - there are few blonder - They say that I've become like mist, O Alexander! What a bounder! And I'm delinquent - often pissed. But these beguiling sweet diversions Can cast no shadow on your mien, You proudly shake off all aspersions With bronze-cast nod of blueish sheen. And standing as before the Presence, I look upon you, and I say: I would ascend right to the heavens If such a fate were mine today. Though doomed I am to persecution, Unceasing will I sing my songs... So song of Steppe in execution Might deep resound with tone of bronze.