Scriabin. Fantasia In B Minor. Poem by Liza Sud

Where was it? Who will understand! -
in Moscow, or in Elsinore,
where pine trees hold vault of the sky,
and waves beat in a B minor.

The octaves move in heavy shafts,
like beasts, are rushing in alert;
their blasphemies are noisy shouts
with smile accepted by the gods;

and song - a shuttle with the sails,
is drawn by the wind so rabid -
it pierces the storm, as the blade,
is ready to meet with the body.

What sounds in it - a plea, a fate,
that knock to us, as being silly,
or drop of sweat from the forehead
that's flowing down on the keyboard,

longing that turned in beauty or
just beauty that became a force
or about her a crazy thought,
who has aroused all this storm?


translation from Sergey Grohotov