Заблудившийся трамвай. Перевод на английский

The Lost Tram
By Nikolai Goumilev

Through strange lonely places once I was wandering,
When suddenly heard a raven’s caw,
A sound of lute and remote thunder, and -
Then a flying tram I saw.

How I jumped on it –  don’t remember,
What was this tram - I cannot say,
All I could see - a burning trace in the air
It was leaving behind even during the day.

Lost between places and times, it was flying
Cutting the sky with the lightning’s scar,
Like a winged storm, and I was crying:
“Stop the car, driver! Now! Please, stop the car!”

We turned the corner. I realized that it was
Too late as I saw a tropical grove,
The Neva, the Seine, the Nile - through those rivers
Grumbling on bridges, the tram further drove.

And, as each place appeared and was gone,
Just for a second I saw on the go
A glance from the window of the same old beggar
Who died in Beirut a year ago.

Where am I? Where? Languid and anxious,
Heavily beating, my heart replies:
Look, you can buy at one of these stations
To your Internal India an eternal pass.

Here is the sign! What’s that? Bloody letters
“Greenery” say, but I know: in this vault
Instead of beetroot, cabbage and lettuce
Dead bodies’ heads are stored and sold.

Red-shirted butcher, with the face like an udder,
Cut my head off too with his axe -
There it was lying along with the others
Right at the bottom of a slimy case.

Round the corner - the three-windowed house
Its wooden fence and grayish lawn...
Stop, driver, stop - or just kick me out
Why do we still have to carry on?

Masha! You lived here. For a wedding party
Wove a carpet, my dear bride...
So, where are now your voice and your body?
How could it happen that you have died??

How were you crying in your lightfilled chambers,
While I, dressed up, made up and vain
Was introducing myself to the Empress
To never see you, my darling, again.

Now I know which freedom attracts us -
Only the light which from outside shines.
People and animals stand by the entrance
To a wonderful zoo of planets and stars.

Again, this sweet wind I’m breathing while crossing
The bridge, and I see how he flies from across,
Stretching his glove - the Iron Horseman,
And, pointing its hoofs at me, his iron horse.

As a stronghold of Orthodox Russia,
St Isaak’s dome is rising so high,
There I will pray for the long life of Masha
And sing a requiem for the life of mine.

From now my heart is forever sullen,
Each breath is painful and so is life:
Mashen’ka, how could I have fallen
Into such sorrow and into such love.