What may I come to see here, what may I breathe in?
Air is tight as thunder nears, it’s tight and it moistens
What may I come to sing here, what may come to hear?
All prophetic chanting birds - I hear their voices...

Joyous Sirin is showing its teeth to me
Seems it smiles, from nests gives its calls
Also here, all sad, shows its mourn to me
Alconost, the uncanny, breaks my soul

Sound as if of seven strings
Running proper sacred chords
That is fortune-spelling Gamajun
Availing us of Hope!

In the deep blue sky that’s spired with bell-towers
Living copper bell, sound of copper bell:
is it joyous, is it mourning the bound...
Sacred Domes in Russia are covered with pure gold -
So that Lord may come notice it well.

Here I stand as if I’m facing timeless mystery
as I see my great proverbial awe-inspiring clime
Along salty, bitter-sour... milky-honeyed strand,
Clearspringing, rye-bearing... procreating land!

Munching viscous dirt that’s rusty and thick in mud
Horses sink to mire, sink up to stirrups
But I’m dragged ahead by orb’s trancelike command
Seeing my country limp and swollen in sleep..

As if all God-painted moons
All appear, taking turn -
That is fortune-spelling Gamajun
Availing us of Hope!

All life’s losses, displacements - all things untold:
All soul’s bruises, all soul’s hurts -
Make soul’s fabric worn out so it bleeds -
Just like Sacred Domes, try to patch soul with pure gold
So Good Lord may come notice it fit!