The Prophet

When, pained with spiritual thirst,
I trudged across a gloomy desert,
I came upon a six-winged seraph
Who stood before me on my path.
With digits light as sleep he touched
My eye pupils, and those enlarged,
Like a she-eagle's in a fright,
Filling up with prophetic sight.
He touched my ears: a din rushed in
Mixed with a ringing, a chiming din.
I heard a heavenly vibration,
And angels' gentle flights above us,
And sea fish gliding in the gulfs,
And yon far grapevine's hibernation.
And from my mouth he tore and flung
My sinful, idle, crafty tongue,
Useless verbose appendage, and
Inserting with a bloodstained hand
Implanted there a wise snake's kiss —
A venom sting — behind numb lips.
His sword opened my chest, from whence
My tremulous heart he plucked out,
placing a slab of coal in flames
within its hollow past all doubt.
And when like carrion silently
I lay, God's voice called out to me:
"Prophet, arise! Behold and hear,
And roam — for no mundane rewards —
By land and sea, but everywhere
Sting people in their hearts with words.

Translated by Philip Nikolayev

A.S. Pushkin. The Prophet (“When, pained with spiritual thirst...”). Translated by Philip Nikolayev // Alexander Pushkin. Collected Works: Parallel Russian Text and English Translation.
© Электронная публикация — РВБ, 2022—2024. Версия 2.1 от 30 ноября 2023 г.