Konstantin Balmont

Oh, what is up with me? I’m all a song.
Weave my ideas in the sonnet’s order,
Fondle with my stare all touching my sight’s border,
And think all ages just to me belong. 

I cast black slabs to have them white and strong,
Steel the sense tale with a light-glazed folder,
Feel everywhere a summer – my life-holder – 
And winds – warlords of heady airy throngs.

What’s up with me? Why did I fall in gladness?
What is sharp pain, like all, I always knew:
Barefooted, go over glass, in dew

Seek, with my heart, what’s gone and vanished, traceless.
I know: ‘tis the sun, with its aroma endless,
Sings songs in me and I sing in it too.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August, 2003