A.Blok, To Muse - Translation (Rus.) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

By Alexander Alexandrovich Blok



In your songs innermost there are

The fatal news all about the death,

And the curse of the holy behests,

Profanation of happiness, lest

The attracting invincible force,

That I'm ready to reiterate talks

That you'd angels brought down to earth

By your beauty so perfect, utmost.

When you laugh at belief, there appears

A softened circle, which's purple-grey coloured,

Whether bad, may be good - not from here

You are, thus hard to wonder:

For some people you're - the Miracle,

For me - my Muse - is the torture and hell,

I don't know, why in the morning,

In hour of a weakness total

I've been not perished, but your face

I've seen and asked you a console?

I wished us being only foes...

Then why did you presented me

Such a beautiful and reach green meadow

And a starry vault's solidity?

All that the helled amenities?

And more perfidious, than a night northen,

More heady, than a wine light-golden,

More short, than a gypsy'love cold,

Were your such awful endearments.

And there an enjoyment fatal

In trampling of the cherished dreams,

A reckless, but so sweetheart pleasure

And a passion bitter as absinth.