Aleksandr Blok

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