ВОИСТИНУ! К России Отвяжись, я тебя умоляю! Вечер...

TRUE!
To Russia

Get off, I beg you!
The evening is terrible, the hum of life has died down.
I am helpless. I'm dying
from your blind influx.

The one who freely left his homeland,
free to howl on the peaks about her,
but now I went down to the valley,
and now do not dare to approach.

Forever I'm ready to hide
and live without a name. I'm ready,
so as not to converge with you in dreams,
give up all kinds of dreams;

bleed yourself, cripple,
not touching your favorite books,
exchange for any dialect
all I have is my tongue.

But on the other hand, oh Russia, through tears,
through the grass of two non-adjacent graves,
through the quivering spots of birch
through everything that I lived from my youth,

dear blind eyes
don't look at me, have pity
do not look in this coal pit,
do not grope my life!

For years have passed and centuries
and for sorrow, for torment, for shame, -
late, late! - no one will answer,
and the soul will not forgive anyone.

V. Nabokov