(translated by Elaine Feinstein)
A weak shaft of light through the blackness of hell is
your voice under the rumble of exploding shells
in that thunder like a seraph he is announcing
in a toneless voice, from somewhere else, some
ancient misty morning he inhabits, how he
loved us, who are blind and nameless who
share the blue cloak of sinful treachery
and more tenderly than anyone loved the woman who
sank more daringly than any into the night of evil,
and of his love for you, Russia, which he cannot end.
Thinking him human they
decided to kill him, and
now he's dead. For ever.
-Weep. For the dead angel.
At the day's setting, he
sang the evening beauty.
from : 10
Look there he is, weary from foreign parts,
a leader without body-guard
there - he is drinking a mountain stream from his hands
a prince without native land.
He has everything in his holy princedom there
Army, bread and mother.
Lovely is your inheritance.