English Poems

[NorthernLights]

By A. Pushkin

translation of Yevgeny Onegin

If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.

I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.

When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.

If I caress a young child,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.


Each day, every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.


And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?

And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.


And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.

[DaZahroJaam.]

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real Life is earnest
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.






A woman who my mother knows
Came in and took off all her clothes.

Said I, not being very old,
'By golly gosh, you must be cold

'No, no' she cried. 'Indeed I'm not
I'm feeling devilishly hot

[DaZahroJaam.]

Thou strum thy lute and play thy flute
and serenade a gentle storm of my splendid form
Then stand on the altar, and dare not to falter
As thou spin the tale , hide truth in veil
Of how I ate the forbidden fruit
Then as ye lay in bed, the streets run red
For thy brothers blood, ye freely shed!
Thou built a cage in every age
And tethered my wings, o’ splendid kings
then ye stroked the pen and clamored Amen!
As I lived in sin, no truth therein
While ye strut the world, thy royal stage
O glorious brute, how be thy soul so free of dread
For thy bothers blood, ye freely shed!
Let judgment be nigh, no sorrow nor sigh
My witness be my story, untouched by pompous glory
A jewel most sublime, redeemed by hands of time
I rendered life in grace, not a nook did I efface
Yet surely above all that has been said
my habit noble that chiefly lead…
My sisters blood I did not shed

[DaZahroJaam.]

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed--see here it is--
I hold it towards you
....This living hand..

[DaZahroJaam.]

Were I the majesty of night, as it holds thee in its embrace
The opulence of darkness
As it adorns thee with its grace.
Were I the tranquil breath of dawn, as it welcomes thee to light
The golden warmth of morning
As it gladdens thy sight.
Were I a wistful bygone melody, as it stirs your heart to remember
The sweetness of love true
As it stings thee with its ember.
Were I the artistry of an autumns sunset, as it beckons thy timeless gaze
The inviolate aroma of springs first rose
As it sweetens thy days.

[DaZahroJaam.]

Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.

'And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.'

The Priest sat by and heard the child;
In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,
And all admired the priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,
'Lo, what a fiend is here! said he:
'One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy mystery.'

The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place
Where many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such thing done on Albion's shore?

[DaZahroJaam.]

I don't put titles and names because titles give out conclusions and names influence readers before they read the material. Put any of these in google and it will give you the name of the poem and the writer.
Furthermore, it's my collection and for my pleasure. I will do with it as I please.
**** off now.

[Manzareh]

All I know is I'm never going to Albion's shore wherever the heck that is.

[Manzareh]

^ you a member of some cult?

[DaZahroJaam.]

get out of my thread!

[DaZahroJaam.]

All I know is I'm never going to Albion's shore wherever the heck that is.

you are already there. Figuratively and literally.

[DaZahroJaam.]

others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.

[Manzareh]

you are already there. Figuratively and literally.

Figuratively or literally? make your mind up.

[Manzareh]

"why waste our lives in pursuit of useless-garbage?
we are the consumer market, prepared for the human-harvest
while gaps grow between the slums and the huge-apartments
we stay alien to brothers... like luna-martians
inside my faith is worn.. my Bible pages torn
its like my prayers hitting dead ends like Zions Wailing-wall
I look around and see corruption in all shapes and forms
Mass control from inside Free-Mason halls"

[DaZahroJaam.]

albion's shore is Britain which was the land of ignorance during that time. So figuratively and literally.