"The Prophet"
By Alexander Pushkin
[revised version]
When, pained with spiritual thirst,
I trudged across a gloomy desert,
I came upon a six-winged seraph
Standing before me on my path.
With digits light as sleep he touched
My pupils both, and they enlarged,
Like a she-eagle's in a fright,
Filling up with prophetic sight.
He touched my ears: a din rushed in
Mixed with a ringing, a chiming din.
I heard a heavenly vibration,
And angels soaring high above us,
And sea fish gliding in the gulfs,
And yon far grapevine's maturation.
And from my mouth he tore and flung
My sinful, idle, crafty tongue,
Useless verbose appendage, and
He swiftly with his bloodstained hand
Implanted there a wise snake's kiss –
A venom sting – behind numb lips.
His sword split up my chest, from whence
He plucked away the timid heart
And in its place a coal in flames
Into the hollow did insert.
And when like carrion silently
I lay, God's voice called out to me:
"Prophet, arise! Behold and hear,
And roam – for no mundane rewards –
By land and sea, but everywhere
Sting people in their hearts with words.
