…from the quills of the dead white poets
Mikhail Lermontov (1814 – 1841)
A year will come, the year of Russia, last,
When the monarchs’ crown will be cast;
Mob will forget its former love and faith,
And food of many will be blood and death;
When the cast off law will not guard
A guiltless woman and a feeble child;
when the plague on bodies, sick or dead,
Among the gloomy villages will spread,
To call from huts with pieces of a rag,
And dearth will maim this poor earth as plague;
And on the lakes will fateful glow lay:
A mighty man will come in this black day.
You will recognise this man and understand,
Why he will have the shining knife in hand:
And voe for you! – Your moans and appeals
He will consider just as funny things;
And all his image will be awful now.
As his black mantle and his lofty brow.