Every evening
I start to hate this princely mansion,
And the grief, which is worse than a Polovtsian,1
Paces across the dirty floor.
The burning smoke from a smoldered flag
Swirls above the aspen.
I drown my wild yearning
In foamy braga2
The underripe moon grins
In the window from under the eaves;
It seems like I hear:
Drink, dear, drain to the dregs!...
Drink, maybe something can be made from you,
Maybe you will find your fortune
Who was a wolfling will become a wolf
Wind, blood and silver.
It is just turned out like this- don't cross yourself-
You are going to forge your clutches with gold
Who was a kitten will become a lynx
A honey tongue, a heart of gall!
Don't visit me, my desired one,
Don't try to divert my grief
It fooled me in the drunk night
I won't return before the dawn.
Oh, I wake up, come out, shut the door-
The village is silent-
The stars fall down feathers-like
On the footprints of the sharp-clawed paws.
A sweet smell of the darkness,
A bitter font in the forest,
You was called a little bear
You grew up a fierce beast.
Drink, maybe something can be made from you,
Maybe you will find your fortune
Who was a wolfling will become a wolf
Wind, blood and silver...
1. a synonym for a barbarian2. home-made beer