А raven flies to another one, the raven cries cawing to it:
"Raven, where we are to dine? How could we find out about it?"
The second raven said cawing to the first one in reply:
"I know, we will have lunch; in the open field under the willow bush
a dead hero lays. By whom and why he was killed,
only his falcon knows it, also his black mare and his young mistress".
The falcon flew off into the woods, his mare was mounted by a foe,
his mistress are waiting for her not killed but alive dear.

How Happiness Comes Slowly

How happiness comes slowly,
how it flies away quickly from us!
That is blessed who does not strive after it,
but finds it in oneself! In my sad youth
I was happy one minute, but then, alas! -
I suffered the fierce bitterness
from both fate and people as well!
Even if for an hour we are pleased
with the deception of hope!
That is blessed whose heart
heeds the voice of hope even in trouble!
But already runs away the dream
that sometime flattered soul;
hope was unfaithful to heart,
in sequence of that a sigh flyes after it!
I want to be often deluded
and to forget the disloyal one... but no!
Now I see the light of obnoxious truth
and ought to give up the dream!
I've lost all in the world,
was wilted the bloom of my youth:
love that was dreamt about as happiness,
only love alone was left in me!

A Poet And The Crowd

A poet was absent-mindedly strumming on his inspired lyre. He sang - in the meantime around the cold and haughty people uninitiated listened to him inanely. And so the stupid rabble had a chat about him:"Why so loudly he sings? In vain striking our ears, what is he driving at? What is he plinking about? What subjects does he teach us? Why as a wayward sorcerer does he excite us to torments? His song is free like a wind, like a wind it is fruitless. What is the benefit to us of it?"

Shut up you, senseless people, day laborers, slaves of both needs and cares! For me your bold murmuring is obnoxious, you are the earthworms, but not the sons of heaven. If you'd like something it's only the profit - you even estimate the worth of the sculpture of Apollo Belvedere in its weight. You don't know the use of it. But after all, this marble is a deity! .. What of that? You appreciate still higher a kitchen pot, because in it you make your cooking.

But if you're heaven's darling, then would you, a divine messenger, be so good as to use your gift for our benefit: will you please improve the hearts of your fellow citizens. We are timid, we are cunning, shameless, wicked, ungrateful; our hearts are as cold as the ones of eunuchs, slanderers, toads, fools; a bundle of vices takes root in us. You could, for the sake of love to your neighbors, give us your daring lessons, whereas we would heed your advice.

Be off! What concern for you is it of a pacific poet? Stagnate safely in depravity, the voice of lyre won't revive you! Like coffins you are nasty for my soul. Up to now for your stupidity and malice you had whips, dungeons, axes; - for you even is enough of crazy slaves! In your cities, they sweep the litter on bustling streets - well, useful work! - However, whether the priests, forgetting both their ministry and their altar, and their sacrifice, take brooms from you? We are born not for worldly excitement, not for greed, not for battles, but for the sake of inspiration, for the sake of both the sweet sounds and the prays.

The Black Raven

The black raven, why are you hovering over me?
You won't get your prey.
The black raven, I am not yours!

What for do you push out your claws over my head?
Whether you expect your prey?
The black raven, I'm not yours!

I'm going to tie my fatal wound with a gift handkerchief,
and then I'll be talking with you about the same thing.

Would you mind flying into my native country.
Could you tell my mommy, the dearest
that I fell in the battle for the Motherland.

Will you please bear away
the bloody handkerchief to my sweetheart.
Could you tell her - she is free.
I married someone else.

I was married to a quiet modest bride
in an open field under the willow bush.
My saber was for me as a matchmaker.

The tempered arrow got married me
during mortal combat.
Now I see my death is coming.
The black raven, I am at your service!

The Quartet

Both a rogue of monkey, a donkey, a goat and a bruin bear decided to play a quartet. They got some music, a bass, a viola, two violins and sat in the meadow under the limes, aiming to captivate the world with their art. They took up fiddlesticks and bows, proceeded to scrape away, but it was all for nothing.
"Stop, guys, wait a minute!" yelled the monkey: "What sort of music can it be, if we sit in the wrong manner? You bruin with the bass sit down, please, against the viola, and I, the prima, am going to sit against the second; we are sure to make both the forest and hills dance!"
They sat themselves down in that way, began playing, but all the same it was no good at all.
"Hang on, I found the secret", shouted the donkey: "we are sure to succeed, if we sit in a row".
They obeyed the ass and sat sedately in a row, yet as before the music was of the nasty kind and sort. Then, more than ever, they started to wrangle to whom and how to sit. It turned out that having paid attention to their racket a nightingale came flying. There and then all of them inquired it:
"Would you mind telling us only one thing, how we are to sit so that to play in a nice way?"
-"To be a musician, one ought to have ability and skills", the nightingale said to them in reply:
"Whereas you, my friends, no matter how you sit, are not suited to be the ones".

I Believe, I Promise To Believe

I believe, I promise to believe,
although I haven’t experienced it,
that some monk could be frank
and live as he sworn to do it,
that people’s both kisses and
smiles are not always treacherous,
that sometimes they forgive
neighbors’ small errors,
that the time cures sufferings,
that the world is created for happiness,
that virtue is not a mere word and
the life is rather more than only some dream!
However, every instant the cold experience
contradicts the warm belief and
as before my distressing mind
has not reached its desirable goal,
also my full of regrets heart
keeps a deep imprint of the dead but holy visions
and the shade of the senses which do not exist anymore;
my heart wouldn’t be frightened by anything,
if something is like poison for others,
its hurting fire is like the healing balm for my heart.

In The Empty, Transparent Hall Of A Garden

In the empty, transparent hall of a garden
I go rustling with the dry leaves:
What a strange pleasure
To trample the past by my own foot!
How sweet to recollect everything
That was appreciated by me so little formerly!
What great there are both pain and grief in the hope
To greet the spring at least once more!