Eto zh nado - v svoi-to tridtsat'! -
ne dozhit',
a skoree - dozhit'sia
do togo,
chto v dushe,
kak v grobnitse,
tiazhely,
slovno brevna syrye,
gromozdiatsia
vse gody bylye:
i schastlivye,
i rokovye! . .
I dyshat' ottogo vse trudnee,
chto dusha ne poet -
a nemeet;
ne bolit,
a skoree - boleet . . .
Ne vzletet'! -
Khot' nad samym porogom
krai nebes nakrenilsia pologii.
No uzhe utomili dorogi,
tak strenozhili - bol'she ne vzvit'sia!
V nebesakh otrazhaiutsia litsa,
litsa tekh,
s kem sluchilos' prostit'sia.
Nikogo ne zabyt'!
Ne zabyt'sia! . .
Znat',
dusha - eto trudnaia pamiat'.
Nichego ne steret',
ne ubavit',
nichego ne izbyt',
ne ispravit'! . .
. . . Vse zhe eto - sviataia nosha,
chem ona tiazhelei,
tem dorozhe!
Transliterated by Birgitta Ingemanson
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Paul Brians