I wonder what will catch my gaze, what will the next breath bring,
The air thick fore the storm, thick and viscid.
What shall I sing today, what will reach my ears,
Prescient birds sing, and all from legends.

The Syrin Bird blithely scowls at me,
Cheers me up, beckons from the nests,
And in front, sick at heart and sorrowful,
Poisons the soul the bizarre Alkonost.

Like the seven treasured strings
Rang their turn,
That’s the Bird called Gamayun
Hands me some hope.

In the blue sky, pierced by belfries,
The copper bell, the copper bell
Now rejoiced, and then vexed.
Domes in Russia are covered with pure gold,
For the Lord to notice more often.

I stand, as if faced with an eternal riddle,
In front of a great and fabled country,
In front of a salty and bitter, sour-sweet,
Bright blue, crystal clear, abundant.

Plowing through, the grimy and rusty muck,
The horses sink to the stirrups,
But they lead me like the drowsy country,
Which has slackened, bloated from sleep.

Like the seven wealthy moons
Rises on my path,
That’s the Bird called Gamayun
Hands me some hope.

My soul, beaten down by defeats and losses,
My soul, worn out by the rapids,
If the leather has thinned to draw blood,
I will patch it with golden patches,
For the Lord to notice more often.