*This is another one of my translations, this is a poem by Aleksander Pushkin. It case you can't figure it out it's about the Russian Revolution
Oh what a night! The frost is creaking,
Across the sky no clouds are creeping;
The bluish dome, -- a knitted shade,
Is dazzled with the frequent stars.
All homes are dark. And every gate
Is safely locked with bolts and bars.
In people calmness is conveyed.
The noisy market now is calm,
The guarding dog just barks alone,
And with the loud chains it rumbles.
While all of Moscow sleeps in slumber,
The restlessness of fear forgetting.
The square, in murkiness of night,
Stands filled with yesterday’s beheading.
The torture’s imprints still abide:
Where with a sword a man was struck,
Where there are pitchforks, where there are
The cooled off cauldrons filled with tar;
Where there’s a tumbled over block;
The metal teeth are sticking out,
And bones with ashes are consumed,
Upon the stakes, above the ground,
Dead bodies darken from the fume...
Not long ago, the blood was sliding
Pigmenting snow along the way
And languid moans were rising, rising,
But death embraced them, tranquilizing,
And overtook her easy prey.
Who’s there? Whose horse is it that’s speeding
Across the risky square in flight?
Whose blaring whistle, loud speaking
Is heard in twilight of the night?
Who’s he? –A slayer full of greed.
He gallops, hurries to his date,
By his desire made irate
He pleads: “My valiant, intrepid steed,
Fly like an arrow at full speed!
Oh faster, faster!...” The ardent horse
Just swung its mane, abruptly paused
And stopped. Between the posts
Upon the long and wooden crossbeam,
A corpse was swaying. And the horseman
Was ready to advance and cross,
But for some reason under lashes
The steed just sniffs and snorts and rushes
Back. “Where to?! Ahead, ahead!
What is with you! What is to dread?
Just yesterday, right here we’d ride,
Wasn’t it us who stomped with pride,
Inflamed with vengance from afar,
The evil traitors of the czar?
It was their blood that we would use
To wash and clean your steely hoofs!
Have you forgotted all in spite?
My daring steed, this is your course
Now gallop, fly...” The tired horse
Under the corpse would slowly ride.
"I will not whole die, my soul in sacred lyre,
will outlive my dust and will escape decay,
And in the moonlit sphere, my glory will not tire
As long as poets still remain" A. Pushkin