THE PROPHET

THE PROPHET
(перевод с русского стих-ия
А. Пушкина “Пророк”)

With thirst for spiritual food
In grimly desert I was roaming.
The six-winged seraph put his foot
Across my path before the gloaming.

He touched my eyes with finger-tips,
Which were as light as softest dreams.
My eyes became at once wide open
To see what can not be seen often.

He touched my ears – the noise and chime
Had filled them up. I could meantime
Hark by myself the sky vibration,
The noise of flying angels’ wings,
The motion underwater things’,
The vine’s remote vegetation.

He, after that, to lips mine clung.
He tore away my sinful tongue,
My tongue both sly and idly talking.
He put the sting of wise old snake
Into my lips, standstill and blake, -
For all my life the priceless token.

He cut apart my chest by sword,
Pulled out heart, alive and taming.
He placed, without any word,
Instead the coal, alight and flaming.

I’ve lain in desert like a corpse.
The voice of God have called me forth:
“Arise, my prophet! See and listen.
And go over whole world.
Obey my will, keep the adhesion,
And burn the human hearts by word!”

September 1999