You often watched him on the high life's level, -- The gaily-selfish or with gloomy sight, Or full of thoughts, or scatted one and wild, As poets are -- and you've scorned him forever! -- Look at the crescent: like a slim white cloud, In daily skies, he's almost lost his might, But a night had come, and, God of holly light, He, shines, the single, on the sleeping ground! Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2000