By Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
We were fighting. Straight in breast
The sharp bayonet was directed.
Someone shouted: 'Be glorified! '
Someone whispers: 'Don't forget me! '
Nearby someone falled uphands,
And the host fast closed row.
Someone trembles under feet of ranks...
Who that was? No time to know...
Only clear in joyous memory
There's the candle, flared up.
All of them, with foot such heavy,
Trampling down a warm body, passed...
For at least no one will meet, surely,
Old ages - time to death...
High above there's the flaming fury,
The bloody void is far away...
Well! Let be more loud gnash there,
Sweeter pain and brighter death!
Thereafter - the soil will spoil
And indulge the solid scared.
Jan 1905
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem