The year will come, Russia’s year of black, / When the Tsars’ crown will tumble; / For it, the rabble will forget its former love, / And the food of many will be death and blood…

The mountain peaks / Slumber in the darkness of night; / The quiet valleys / Are full of fresh mist…

A solitary sail shines white / In the bright blue haze of the sea! / What does it seek in a distant realm? / What did it leave behind in its native land?

Until all the blood seeps from your pores, / Until you cry your earthly eyes out, / You will not become spirit. / Wait…

There is no joy in the world, but there is calm, and will./ Long have I dreamed of an enviable lot; / Long have I, a weary slave, been plotting an escape…

Lord of my days! a spirit of despondent idleness, / Of lust for power (that lurking serpent), / Of idle speech — keep far from my soul.

Tormented by a spiritual thirst, / I dragged myself through a bleak desert, / And a six-winged seraph / Appeared to me at a crossroads…