From Pushkin
Though heavy a burden is in it sometimes,
The cart is light when gaining 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 the 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 underway;
By dusk we have got used to it
And, dozing off, we ride to the night stay,
While Time drives on and on the steed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem