I. Tzaryov, The Bell - Translation (Rus.) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

And a brazen one
Waved his round tongue,
In the sky he lapped cloud's milk -
The copper poor bell,
Up and down waved...
All his sides will be bruised to ill.

That's not prank, nor game -
To beat him to pain -
Rather tough is hand of the ringer old...
Let the bones crackle,
God forgives the shake -
Thus, the action wasn't a mere fault.

From 'the box on ear'-the cracks are scattering,
Once he will have voice wild and hoarse
The copper-foreheaded guy,
Who had pulled your tongue?
Why allowed you such a joke?

From the cosy veil
He'll be carried away,
Will be dragged outwards as a fool.
Poor copper bell
Should be thrown well,
To the end of life he'll be mute.

And the goldfinch
Will stop then to sing,
He'll become a beggar, destitute.
May be there's enough,
Better spare his sides...
But he's ringing loud, his tongue out...

There's a good soup ready,
From the string beans, may be
It's a joker with a flag...
And from belfry a ring
Going far around free
Above country roofs every day.