A poem by Alexander Pushkin – Pouchkine, Pooshkin (1799-1837), in English translation

Bound for your distant home

you were leaving alien lands.

In an hour as sad as I’ve known

I wept over your hands.

My hands were numb and cold,

still trying to restrain

you, whom my hurt told

never to end this pain.

But you snatched your lips away

from our bitterest kiss.

You invoked another place

than the dismal exile of this.

You said, ‘When we meet again,

in the shadow of olive-trees,

we shall kiss, in a love without pain,

under cloudless infinities.’

But there, alas, where the sky

shines with blue radiance,

where olive-tree shadows lie

on the waters glittering dance,

your beauty, your suffering,

are lost in eternity.

But the sweet kiss of our meeting …

I wait for it: you owe it me …

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