The Prophet

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin*


My lonely heart athirst, I trod
A barren waste when there before me
A winged seraph, silent, stood
And on the crossroad waited for me.
Upon my orbs of sightless clay
His fingers, light as dreams, he lay,
And like an eagle's eyes when frighted
The bird is, they... they oped and sighted
The earth and sky... He touched my ear,
The t'other, and, most marked and clear,
There came to me the gentle flutter
Of angel's wings, I heard the vine
Push through the earth and skyward climb,
The deep-sea monsters underwater
Like fishes glide... My sinful tongue
And sly from out my mouth he wrung,
And this with bloody hand removing,
O'er me he did relentless lean
And push a serpent's sting between
My deadened lips... Then, swiftly drawing
His shining sword, he cleaved my breast,
Plucked out my quivering heart, and, sombre
And grim of aspect, coolly thrust
Into the gaping hole an ember
That ran with flame... I lay there, dead,
And God, God spake, and this He said:
"Arise, O sage, my summons hearing,
Do as I bid, by naught deterred;
Stride o'er the earth, a prophet, searing
The hearts of men with righteous word."


*Translated from Russian by Irina Zheleznova