A.Blok, To Vyacheslav Ivanov - Translation (Rus.)
There was a violin's woe during a ball.
Breathing with wine and blood,
The rebellion awful soul
Was dictating a fate to us.
From the alien countries, distant lands,
Merging in our snow fire-bed,
In the circle of the dark-eyed madmen
You raised as a gold head.
Somewhat crooked, not young, nor old,
You're - the secret forces' emanation,
And how many a souls' deserted cold
You'd pierced with your cold breath!
There was a moment - the unbeknown power,
Tearing with an elation your breast,
Stunned with a silver ringing over
Dazzled with a whipping snow,
With a bliss vitiated your way!
And in that moment, in a glaring blizzard,
I don't know - in what country,
I don't know - in what circle, rather,
Your strange face appeared to me...
And I, being wild and shy earlier
Of your penetrative eyes,
Looked at... And our souls sung joyly
The same verse at one time.
But blizzard stopped up to these days.
As a bitter fold all that years
Are laying on my heart. As a friend
I can't you see now, regrettably.
As in our youth, I'm not veiled
With the hex of your bottomless soul...
But sometimes, as earlier, I'm aware
Of the nightingale's song in your boondocks...
And much a mistery, many a song,
Many a face of the beauty...
Your world is really marvellous!
Yes, you are - the tzar autocratical!
And I - so sad, poor, hard-boiled,
Having met the dawn at morning,
Am staying on the criss-cross of road,
Looking at your tzar train, by going.
18 april 1912
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(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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