The Cart Of Life Poem by Emil Sharafutdinov

From Pushkin

Though heavy a burden is in it sometimes,
The cart is light once it gains speed;
The driver is dashing, grey-haired Time,
Drives on, not getting off the seat.

At dawn we jump up in the cart;
We would be glad to break one's neck
And, scorning laziness and fright,
Call: off you go, for …. sake!

At noon we have no former nerves;
Having been jolted, more we dread
All those slopes and steeps, and curves;
We shout: not so fast, blockhead!

Same as before the cart is on its way;
By dusk we have got used to it
And, dozing off, we ride to the night's stay,
While Time drives on and on the steed.