The spring is breaking river ice,
I feel no pity for the dead:
Upon new summits now I rise,
Forgetting ravines, now my eyes
Reflect blue distances ahead.
In smoky flames, I’ll feel no woe,
I won’t be grieving by the crosses,
I wait here for a sudden blow,
Or the divine to be bestowed
Upon me from the bush of Moses!
By Alexander Blok
Translation by Andrey Kneller
Alexander Blok >