What will I espy this day and what will I breathe in?
Cool and viscous is the air before a hailstorm.
What will I perceive today in the divine therein? 
The prophetic birds are singing - fairy tales born. 

Here’s the Sírin  bird, grinning too happily,
She is calling to come from the nest.
And across from her, in sorrow and apathy,
Stirs my soul the bizarre Alkonóst.

It’s as if the seven strings
Started ringing in each turn -
That is Gamayún who sings,
Giving hope to all who yearn!

In the blue bell-towered sky the bell is tolled with ease,
Ringing copper peals, ringing copper peals -
Whether angry or rejoiced, or sounding odd...
For the Russian domes are covered with the golden leaves,
So that they may be noticed by God.

Here I stand, as if before the timeless mystery,
Here I face the great and otherworldly country -
Over-salted, sweet-and-sour, and bitter-syrupy,
And celestial blue, artesian, rye, and sultry.

Slurping sludge that is rusty and affluent,
Horses stuck in the mud, stirrups-deep.
But they drag me along with my motherland,
With the state that is swollen with sleep. 

It’s as if the seven moons
Started rising in each turn.
That is singing Gamayun -
Giving hope to all who yearn!

If my soul is battered by demises, damages,
If my soul is roughened by the narrow passages,
If it’s worn down to the point of oozing blood,
I will patch it up with gold, with golden bandages,
So that it may be noticed by God!