To Natasha

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

The red summer is all withering
Clear days are flying away;
A stormy fog is creeping in
Nights are in the slumber, say.
The green fields are empty
The playful stream is cold;
The curly forest turned grey;
The heaven pale, untold.

Bright-Natasha! where you now?
That none is watching you?
Or don’t you want an hour with me
And share your hearts afew ?
Not over the wavy lake,
Nor beneath your linden tree;
Early or late, for my sake,
I find no trace of thee.

Soon, soon the winter cold
Will visit the grove and the field;
A light in a smoky bold
Will shine then get infilled.
I won’t see the beauty’s face
Like a siskin caged forlorn;
I’ll grieve in my lonely space
And for Natasha I’ll mourn.

(Translated from Russian by poet Santosh Kumar Pokharel on June 6 occasioning the 225th birth anniversary of  Pushkin and the Russian Language Day)