What may I come to see here, what may I breathe in? Air is tight as thunder nears, itís 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 thatís 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 Iím 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 thatís rusty and thick in mud Horses sink to mire, sink up to stirrups But Iím dragged ahead by orbís 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 lifeís losses, displacements - all things untold: All soulís bruises, all soulís hurts - Make soulís 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!
© A.I.Balagutin. Translation, 2020