Through a precipice, along à chasm, by the very edge
I whip my horses, lash, and drive them.
Somehow air is short. I drink wind, gulp fog.
I sense with ruinous delight: I am lost, I am lost!

A bit slower, horses, a bit slower!
Don’t heed my taught whip!
But somehow such horses came to me: fastidious ones.
And to live long I wasn’t able, and finish singing I won’t be able.

I will water the horses, I will sing the couplet to the end.
But a moment more I will stand on the edge.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 

We came on time: to God there are no late comings.
And why do angels there sing with such fierce voices,
Or has this bell completely lost irself from sobbing?
Or will I cry to the horses, so that the sleigh wouldn’t go so fast?

A bit slower, horses, a bit slower!
I implore you to gallop, not to fly!
But somehow such horses came to me: fastidious ones.
So while I won’t live long, at least I can sing to the end!

I will water the horses, I will sing the couplet to the end.
But a moment more I will stand on the edge.