The Thought Poem by Emil Sharafutdinov

from Lermontov

Sadly I look at our generation!
Its future — either blank or dark,
Meanwhile under the weight of doubt and information
In inactivity it shall grow old unmarked.
Wealthy we are, barely out of cradle,
In fathers' blunders and their tardy wit,
Already sick of life like of an idle
And even way, like of a stranger's holiday banquet.
Disgracefully indifferent to good and evil,
Without struggle we give up pursuits since early days;
In front of danger basely shrivel
And in front of authority — despised slaves.
Just as a slender fruit ripe before its hour
Neither delights our taste, nor eyes,
Hangs like an orphaned alien amid the flowers,
And their beauty's time — the time of its demise!

We dried our minds with sterile education,
Jealously hiding from our friends and fellowmen
The noble voice and best of aspirations
For fear of being ridiculed by them.
We slightly touched the cup of pleasure
But, failing thus to save young energy, we did,
For fear of exceeding measure,
Forever drain each joy of the best juice in it.

The dreams of poetry, pieces of art
Do not move our minds with raptures sweet;
We still save greedily the residue of feelings in the heart —
A useless treasure, buried by thrift,
And hate, and love do randomly we feel,
Not sacrificing anything either to love or ire,
And in the soul holds sway a secret chill
While in the blood boils fire.
And our ancestors' opulent amusements we find lame,
Their conscientious and childish vice;
And to the grave we speed sans happiness, sans fame,
Sarcastically looking at our lives.

A grim and speedily forgotten crowd,
We'll pass over the world, unfollowed and unsung,
Having cast to the ages no thought profound,
No work by a genius begun.
And a descendant, as a judge and a citizen austere,
Shall mark our ashes with a bitter verse,
A duped son's disdainful sneer
At the broke father, squandered his wealth.