The Cross On The Rock

Mikhail Lermontov

I know a rock in a highland's ravine,

On which only eagles might ever be seen,

But a black wooden cross o'er a precipice reigns,

It rots and it ages from tempests and rains.

And many years have gone without any hints,

From times when it was seen from faraway hills.

And its every arm is raised up to the sky,

As if catching clouds or going to fly.

Oh, if I were able to rise there and stay,

Then how I'd cry there and how I'd pray;

And then I would throw off real life's chains

And live as a brother of tempests and rains! 

I Want To Live... 

I want to live; I crave for sadness -

Against my bliss and love, in truth;

They sank my mind in idle gladness

And made my brow very smooth.

It's time for high life's derogation

To blow away the hazy peace;

What is bard's life, void of desolation?

And what are void of tempests seas?

He wants a life that burns and wounds,

The life in which it's hard to be.

He buys the Holly Heaven's sounds,

He doesn't take his fame for free. 

The Grave Of Ossian 

In my beloved Scottish highlands,

Under a curtain of cold mists,

Between the sky of storms and dry sands,

The grave of Ossian exists.

My dreaming heart flies to its stone

To breathe in native air puffs

And take from it the priceless loan -

The treasure of the second life.