O, she has been as clean as snowed lands, - Noble sables to pave her way should have been thrown... Alas! Her letter now stings my hands - To me the shocking truth is now known. Iíve not discerned the evil, masked with a fresco, - The masquerade is coming to an end; In spite of being suffered a fiasco I should be sure it is not a trend. Iíve got a thought that days of mine are ceased, - Into my veins bad blood has penetrated, The letter as the head of a snake Iíve squeezed - The poison has through fingers percolated. I will not suffer grieves, stop weeping tears - Head wind will dry off tears from my face, My steeds will never be caught up with grievance And storming wonít drop snow on my trace. Behind Iím leaving now all the kinks, Grey skies and unattractive earth below, All charms of violets, nudity of pinks, The tears mixed up with the melted snow. Since Moscow does not believe to tears Iíve got a firm intention not to weep, - Iíll pick new fights without feeling fears And all the benefits from them Iíll reap!
© Vyacheslav Chistyakov. Translation, 2013