Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.138.141.138

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

Guv, tell me, not without the reason
our Moscow in the fired treason
was burnt and left for French.
Oh, there were fights I see their splendours 
so awesome and we have the embers,
No wonder Russia still remembers
Borodino’s black trench!

It was the time there were the people,
The modern tribe looks like some cripple,
They’re Heroes they’re not you.
Their fate is bad their fate is sorry:
Not many had returned with glory,
God will be done and our story
left Moscow beauteous view.

We were retreating long and silent
So sad we waited fight and quiet
The old men grumble so:
What? Winter quarters willy-nilly?
Can chiefs tear up strange tunics killing
with Russian bayonets and feeling
that French would have to go?

And field was found: it’s large and ample
There was the space to walk or trample
Then we had built redoubt.
We kept our head; it is warning,
The cannons lightened with the morning,
Crowns of blue trees were full of dawning,
The French’s right here; they’re proud.

I put the ball in cannon tightly,
I thought I will regale “friend” lightly,
Oh, little wait, monsieur.
Do not be cunning, soldiers. Action!
We’ll go as wall against their faction,
We will stand head and shoulders. Passion!
For Motherland, hell yeah!

There were two days of endless shooting, 
I saw no point in this duty,
Third day we waited for.
The speeches were among blood splashing:
“It’s time for case-shot for the smashing!”
And night fell down on field of slashing
with shadow pausing war.

I lay to sleep near carriege boring,
I heard that French exults for morning
over the battlefield.
Our bivouac was very quiet
Some cleaned his shako after riot,
Some sharpened bayonet untired
Biting moustache and chilled.

P.S. This is my translation of poem by Mikhail Lermontov.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required