How can I contemplate these days so strange of late, how can I catch my breath?
The air is cool before the storm; cool but unbearable
What is that melody they’re chanting to me now that sounds like death?
Prophetic birds are singing - as from some parable.

The jovial Sirin, she grins at me salaciously -
As she tempts me and entices me from nests
While on the contrary, so mournfully, so plaintively,
Burdens my soul, the uncanny Alkanost.

Just as seven sacred strings
Begin to ring out each in turn -
So sagacious Gamayun
Puts all her confidence in those who learn!

Belfries tower high to pierce a deep blue sky of lapis lazuli -
Ringing copper bells, ringing copper bells -
Sheets of roofing felt rejoicing, sheets giving hell...
The cupolas in Russia, clad with unalloyed gold -
So when the good Lord glances down, he’ll mark them well.

Here I stand, as in some timeless plan, my life in hand,
Before this awe-inspiring land, this dreamlike land -
Along the salty strand - this bitter-sour - this honeyed land,
Blue water springing forth, rye-bearing - this promised land!

This greasy, dirty, rusty, grimy, tarnished land
Where horses sink into the mire without number.
But still they’re dragging me along under this trancelike command
Though now lethargic and bloated with slumber.

Just as seven swollen moons
Are pulling me along, each in its turn -
So sagacious Gamayun
Puts all her confidence in those who learn!

A soul that’s bruised and battered, scorned, abused, grown old
Has accumulated damage left untold!
But if the fabric has been worn right down to the nerve
I will patch the cloth that’s torn with unalloyed gold -
So when the good Lord glances down, it’s fit to serve.