A.Blok, Skyphians – Translation (Rus.)

By Alexander Blok

You all – of millions. And we – of lots and lots and lots.
Try then to fight with us!
Yes, we are – skyphians! Yes, we’re – the asians all,
With squinted greedy eyes!

For you – the centuries, for us – one only hour.
We all, as docile slaves, are holding
The shield between two races hostal –
Mongolian and european!

For centuries our old forge worked,
Supressing avalanche’s roar,
And as a wild tale you thought
About fall of Lissabone!

For centuries you looked at East,
Accumulating our pearls,
And with a scoff you counted
A least way you could cannons point!

And now – it’s hour. The grief spreads wings
And every day encreases insult,
And day will come – the traces print
Might dissapear, as the Pestum!

Oh, old world! While being alive,
While you are pining in sweet suffering,
Let’s stop, as once Aedipus wise
Stood puzzled at the ancient Sphynx.

Russia – a Sphynx! With triumph, sorrow,
All soaked with the blackish blood,
She’s looking, looking, looking in you
With hate and love in her great heart! ..

You know, as our blood loves, longer,
None of you could love ever more!
You know, you’d forgotten perfectly,
That in this world your love can burn!

We love all – heat of the cold ciphers,
Gift of the sacred divine visions,
And we accept – the Gallian meaning,
As well as the gloomy German genius.

And we remember all – the hell of Paris streets,
And Venice coolness, at the same time,
The lemon grove’s scent such delicate,
And the Koeln’s huge houses.

We like the flesh – its taste and colour,
Its deathly sultry odour…
Is it a guilt, when your skeleton stronghold
Crunches in our hard-soft paws?

We used to grab the bridles of horses,
Fervent and ardent in their movement,
And break down their sacral bones,
And pacify the fired bondmaids…

Come to us! From a horrific war
Come to our tender peaceful hugs!
Before it isn’t late – sheath a sword.
Comrades! We shall became – the brothers!

And if not – there’s no anything to lose,
We also are eager to perfidy!
The centuries will pass – only the curse
Will be from our ill posterity!

We spreaded wide throughout woods
And thickets of nice Europe.
Give way and step aside! We could,
We’ll turn with the asian mugs to you!

Go all! Go all to Urals! So we
Are cleaning here the place for force
Of huge steel mechanisms, where does breathe
An integral with a mongol horde!

But we are not your shield henceforth,
Since time we’ll not merge into battle,
We’ll better look on the battle course
With our narrow eyes impartial!

We shan’t move, when the furious hunn
Will rummage pockets of the corpse,
Or fire towns, drive herds through
The church and eat a white brother’s roast! ..

For the last time – old world, please come
Again to sense! For brother’s fire
Of labour, peace! And for the last
Time calls for feast the barbar’s lyre!

30 Jan 1918

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