The horns are blowing: "Haste, make haste!" And servantsí din continues. The trapperís soul is lacking taste, itís made from oxen sinews. What kind of fun do people want? To kill at will two white-winged swans! And arrows went up, speeding. The archers have a well-trained eye, And these two swans were flying high, Today was their first meeting. She lived below the sun and sky, Where azure stars shine coldly, Where just the chosen swans could fly - The highest fliers only. You spread your wings and soar right through The trembling color of deep blue, And glide through Godís own ranges. Keep moving upward, unrestrained, Towards the heights that could be gained By only moans and angels. But he succeeds in chasing her, So happy at this minute. It could be that what just occurred Was their swanís song and limit. Like two white angels they would fly, Descending from the friendly sky Towards the earth while honking. And from the shrubs, as from the wall, The hunters watch and make a call That bliss should not last longer. They wipe their foreheads with their sleeves, The culprits of this torment; The last petition was fulfilled: "Please pause, the fleeting moment!" And this eternal verse was sung, Just like the song of two white swans, Their fortune evanescent. Although they fell together fast, The seventh heavenís theirs to last, The heaven of contentment.
© Kirill Tolmachev. Translation, 2022