How I'll see it now, how I'll breathe it in?
Air is tight before the lightning, tight and choking.
How I'll hear it all today, oh how I will sing.
>From the fairy tales the prophet birds are singing.
The bird Sirin is happily grinning,
Having fun, calling from nests.
And against him is now despairing,
Wounds the soul the strange Alkonost.
Just like seven promised strings
Ring again then stop -
This is the bird Gamayun
In the blue sky, bleeding with belltowers,
Copper bell, copper bell,
Will be joyful or will be sore.
Russian cupolas are covered in pure gold
That the good Lord will notice them more.
I stand, like before a timeless mystery,
Before great and fairy-tale country.
Before salty bitter sweet and sour land
Blue, spring-water, and full of rye.
Squelching dirt fat till the rust,
Horses go down till stirrup,
But they pull me with sleepy great power
That has soured and bloated from sleep.
And the seven wealthy moons
Interfere with my step.
It is the bird Gamayun
The soul, beaten with losses and sorrows,
The soul, tattered with horror,
If till blood the cloth has been worn,
I will gild with the golden glitter
That the good Lord will notice it more.