Aleksandr Pushkin

The land of Moscow -- the land that is my native,
Where in the dawn of my best years,
I spared the hours of carelessness, attractive,
Free of unhappiness and fears.
And you had seen the foes of my great nation,
And you were burned and covered with blood!
And I did not give up my life in immolation,
My wrathful spirit just was wild!...

Where is the Moscow of hundred golden domes,
The dear beauty of the native land?
Where yore was the real peer to Rome,
The ruins, miserable, lied.
Oh, how, Moscow, for us, your sight, is awful!
The buildings of landlords and kings are fully swept,
All perished in a flame. The towers are mournful,
The villas of the rich are felled.

And where the luxury was thriving,
In shady parks and gardens, in the past,
Where myrtle was fragrant, limes were shining,
There now are just coals, ash, and dust.
At charming summer nights, when silent darkness roves,
The noisy gaiety would not appear there,
The lights are vanished over lakes and groves,
All dead and silent. All unfair.

Be calm, o, Russia's banner's holder,
Look at the stranger's quickly coming end,
On their proud necks and void of labor shoulders,
The Lord's vindictive arm is laid.
Behold: they promptly run, without look at road,
In Russian snows their blood like river's flood,
They run in dark of night, felled by famine and cold,
And swords of Russians, from behind.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 1999
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, February 2000