Photo taken on Pushkin Square, Moscow on his birth anniversary, June 6, 1994

(he addressed this poem to his nurse)

The mist of the storm covers the sky,
The whirlwinds of snow are spinning;
Now, like a wild beast it calls,
now it cries like a child,
Now about the roof, decrepit,
Suddenly it rustles the thatches,
Now, like a traveler overdue,
to us on the window knocks.

Our ancient hut
is mournful and gloomy.
Why have you, my old lady,
Become silent at the window?
Is it the howl of the tempest
That makes you, my friend, fatigued,
Or are you drowsing under the hum
Of your spindle?

Let's drink good friend
Of my poor youth,
Let's drink away grief; where is the tankard?
It will make our hearts gay.
Intoxicate, me with a song, like a titmouse
Quietly living across the sea;
Intoxicate me with a song, like a girl
Who went for the water in the morning.

The mist of the storm covers the sky,
The whirlwinds of snow are spinning;
Now, like a wild beast, it calls,
Now it cries, like a child.
Let's drink, good friend
Of my poor youth,
Let's drink away grief; where is the tankard?
It will make our hearts gay.

The Flower

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