M.Lermontov, Confession, V-Vii - Translation (Rus.) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

V

I don't pray about freedom,
I'm not afraid of skies or hell;
Let the eternal grief just smash me,
Of no matter! Never shall
I meet her! The first day
Of our departing terrible became,
A century and one eternal age!
And if the paradise would be in front
All opened by the unearthly force,
I should ask certainly there the guards,
Standing before the gates, about love:
Are there exist among the saints
My Eden's hopes, lost before?
Oh, don't stop me, don't object...
What is Eden, the earth - without her?
They are the only empty words,
Though ringing loudly,
The shining church,
Though without idol!
Alas! Give her to me back and again -
Her lovely smile and her fair look,
Her sweet voice and her lips such fresh,
As dream, inpropable, delightful...
Only faint sound one, please, give me back...
What is the paradise? Oh! Old chap!

VI

Look, in this prison's moistured dark
I can't see any ray of sun;
But one day I have seen the one,
Which fell on window, as luck;
And since that time between the stones,
As a worthless trace of days, so joyous,
Forgotten though, as I am,
A flower is growing pale;
But it will never blossom either,
It will dye at this place, as others;
Old father, it's fate similar to fate
Of me, unlucky, isn't that?
Know, she already might be passed...
Know, answer will be such at last:
Go, run, call all the executors,
The bloody butchers: I am sure,
There's need now to wait?
She is not here - all's in vain!
Farewell, old chap; that is the hour
Of penalty; pray for them now...
And for the last time I'm swearing
In front of God - I'm innocent!
Say them, that I died as I could,
Without any worried mood,
About the secret, which caused death,
I have told nothing to betray...
Let you forget me in your mind,
How I did live, and I did pass,
How I existed in my life!
Whom I did so strongly love?
Oh, holy Father! What will dye
In me, with me? For peace, for life,
For the eternity itself -
My secret never I shall sell! ..'
......
.......


VII

And he was perished, buried then.
And sound of the ringing bells
Was carried by the wind in steppe
To walls of other dwelling place,
Which was all covered with the grace
And silence of the holy temple...
The image of Madonna there
Was shining in the smoke of the lamps,
As apparitions there were standing
The twelve maids, who were said
To be died long ago; their pray
Was going to heavens high,
And answered to them old shrine,
To their peaceful, sacred song;
And they were singing as one all,
Except the one, as cherub, she
Was nice and fascinating, really.
No one could open her feelings,
Her face was cold, without grievance.
What is the core of women's look?
There was a paradise in eyes, for sure,
But hell was in her heart, at least!
And thoroughly she was there listening
The noise of wind at window,
As if it should bring there the news
About love or death! When doleful
And sad toll of the bells had passed into
The vast church - only a fair scream
Flied up and went down in it.
But those, who have heard, just thought
Or said, that twicely out from
The only one breast such a sound
Couldn't be performed, created, rather!
He took with him her love and life.