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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In desert that is poor and dull On soil that is scorched with fire The Upas-tree stands as a hull as guard who's one who knows no tire. The prairie's nature had a thirst begetting Him in day of fury, It filled dead green of branches first, It poisoned roots these give no curing. The poison flows through pale bark, Noon smelts with heat His poisoned dripping, The Eve congeals Him like a mark as limpid pitch on trunk - He's sleeping. There are no birds to fly to Him, No tiger walks to tree, just swirl embraces tree of death with scream and runs away with toxic evil. And if the cloud will irrigate His ancient leaves and pause its motion, Its fallen rain flows down as fate along the branches like deadly potion. But crafty man had sent a man to Upas-tree with glance of power And man had walked according a plan, He brought the bane in morning hour. He brought the bane - the deadly pitch And branch with faded leaves of Oro And sweat ran down the brow and bleached it with cold streams in silent sorrow. He brought. He's weak, he has laid down under the arch of the tent on flooring, The slave has died in feet of crown that knows no loss that knows no longing. The Lord fed arrows with this bane, They are obedient to his power, He sends the death, he sends the pain to neighbors in decisive hour. P.S. This is my translation of poem by Alexander Pushkin
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