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Александр Пушкин

THE PROPHET

(Перевод А. В. Покидова, 2013)

Tormented by spiritual thirst,
Through a grim waste my way I steered,
A winged Seraph, like a ghost,
Before me at crossroads appeared.
With fingers, light as sleep, he touched:
My eyes as I, all trembling, watched:
The eyes then opened in a twinkle,
Like those of frightened female eagle.
He touched my ears and cured their faults,
They filled with noise and agitation,
And so I harked to thunderbolts,
To angels’ lofty, noiseless flight,
To marine monsters’ awful spite,
To far-off vines’ hid vegetation.
He pressed himself close to my mouth,
My sinful tongue while tearing out,
The tongue full idle, sly and weird,
And then the wisest serpent’s sting
Into my frozen lips did fling
With his adroit right hand, blood-smeared.
My heart he cut out with a sword,
It went all pit-a-pat with fright,
And with red coals that scorched and burned,
He filled my breast, now open quite.
Like a cold corpse midst sands I lay,
And heard the God Almighty say:
“Arise, o prophet, see and heed,
My will make your own will, indeed,
And, going round the seas and earth,
Singe human hearts with righteous word”.

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