Presentiment

Aleksandr Pushkin

Again clouds of the mute heavens

Came together o’er my head;

And again the karma, envious, 

Threatens me with future’s bad…

Should I scorn all fate’s intentions?

Should I bear her against

The great stubbornness and patience

Of my proud youthful years?

By my stormy living tired, 

I, indifferent, wait for storms:

Maybe, I’d, once more saved out,

Find a harbor in my roams.

But divining separation –

That appalling, fateful trice –

I squeeze your hand with such passion

As if this time were the last.

Merciful and peaceful angel,

Softly tell me ‘fare you well’,

Just be sad: let your look, gentle,

Gently rise or gently fell;

And this charming recollection,

In my heart, will hold a place

Of the strengths, pride, expectations

And imprudence of young years.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October 6, 2004

* * *

Prisoner

Aleksandr Pushkin

 I'm sitting by bars in the damp blackened cell --

The juvenile eagle, who's bred by the jail,

My mournful friend, with his wings stretching wide,

Is picking at bloody food right by my side.

He’s picking and looking at me through the bars,

Like having a thought that is common to us,

Like calling to me with a glance and a sight,

And wanting to say, "Let us fly outside!

We're free proud birds; it is time for the friends

To fly to the white of the rock in a haze,

To fly to the blue of the sea and the sky,

Where evenly dwell only tempests ... and I!"

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November, 1999