At dead of night, in stagnation,
The dormant soul is effete;
In vain thirst for inspiration,
Its lame wing just does not beat.
Deep murk surrounds me. In tears,
As my sweet dreams I will,
Haphazard, any song appears,
All songs but spiritless and ill.
And I see, in suffocation,
The coming beating of the wing
Descried through imagination
But sadness, not the songs, shall bring.
---
«Глухая полночь. Цепененье…», 1899
Blok A. At dead of night, in stagnation...
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