I’m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart,
by Nikolay Stepanovich Gumilev
I’m bored with the people and the stories,
And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories,
And yataghans, all covered with blood.
It seems to me – and this is no fraud –
A Tartar, squint, was one of my begetters,
That fierce Hun. And the infection’s fetters
Through length of ages, are my steady bond.
I’m mute. I pine… They vanish – walls of home:
There is a sea in spots of silver foam,
The sun of evening – on the stones’ lead,
The city, with blue domes, like its wardens,
With flourish and decor of jasmine gardens,
We’d fought right there… Oh, yes! And I was killed!