Spring breaks in rivers the ice-floes, And I don’t pity my sweet dead: Having subdued my heights and roads, Forgot I winter narrow lows, And see the distance, in blue set. What might be pitied in a fire, Why to be sorry by a cross, When I am waiting for a mire Or for a gift of Heaven Sire From that great bush that Moses lost! Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2002