…from the quills of the dead white poets
Mikhail Lermontov (1814 – 1841)
1838
Yes, I like you, my knife of damask pledge, My friend so bright and so cold, A thoughtful Georgian forged you for his revenge, A free Circassian then sharpened for a row. You had been trusted me by lily-like a hand – A sign for memory – in time of separation, And now no blood has dripped from you on land, But crystal tears – the pearls of depravation. And looking strait at me, the black and immense eyes, Filled to their rims with the mysterious woe, Like your reflective steel in light of fire-dance, Were sometimes darkness – sometimes glow. On roads, you are friend – the voiceless passion’s grant, And for a traveler – the object to rely on: I will be never changed – my soul will be hard As you, as you, my friend of iron. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November, 2001 Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, June, 2001