Господин Горных Дорог [Gospodin Gornyh Dorog] [English translation]

Rises the Mount Reverie high,

Nightfall upon hollows nigh

And a gilt swells benign.

A lock of mine you twine

In a meadowblooms’ weave.

On the awakening’s eve

A fantasy of lands you cast

Where noon's starry sky is vast.

O, Master of Mountain Trails,

Wintry snow is bitter, warn tales.

A passage high will I go by

Where rapids nimble run awry,

To a rooftop with azure inlaid,

Where streams of stone braid.

To follow you I bid my farewell,

Deaf to a fear’s uneasy knell,

To join ranks numberless

Of those lost and lifeless.

By your hand them bless

And let in peace evanesce

In a haven an elysian gale

Fore morn’s verge sets sail.

O, Master of Mountain Trails,

See there, a storm assails,

Clouds flock with dread;

Come, paint a marl blood-red

For long be it forgotten let

To behold a shooting vinelet.

Side by side would we fare —

My dearest share nigh did I dare.

Faraway our path leads, I guess,

To touch the Sun’s fiery tress,

To the tender host, her raven dress,

A timeless rest and the last caress...

Wintry snow has a bitter scent,

Pristine anguish is my lament.

Rime my traces will becloud,

And no one will follow me true.

Glaze your name will enshroud

And no one will remember you.