Lermontov

In a hundredth time we kill a genius here
When, having killed him in the past by hand,
We start once more our tale, without the end,
That think a dream’s the strange one and unclear.

The roses live. Their fragrance is their breathing.
Bloom everywhere. Crave for the lighted eyes.
But we are busy in a deal with us, -
It’s lost for good – the trice of souls’ meeting.

To that that he, so proud, brave and bright
In his long roams o’er a depth of darkness,
Had sung a bliss into our childish heart, -

Let’s make a hundred deals of good and right:
He, not forfeiting his realms in the highness,
Will smile to us with many stars in night.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August, 2003