By Alexander Pushkin

In desert barren, scanty land,
On ground, burned by hot to total,
Anchar, as one of stern guards stand,
Alone in this endless world.

The nature of the hungry steppes
Has born that tree in state of anger,
Filled with a poison its green crest
And its roots also satiated.

The poison's dripping through its bark,
Melted at noon by cruel heat,
And stiffening at evening time
As a transparent thick pitch.

No any bird is flying to,
Or tiger coming near - wind
Touches the poison-tree in move
And flies away, turned to be evil.

And if a cloud in its rove
Waters its leaf by rain occasional,
From its boughs the poisoned liquor
Is trickling down to hot sand.

But man had forced the other man,
Glaring at him with mighty eye,
And slave obediently went
And brought the poison next daytime.

He brought the deadly tar and branch
With faded leaves, and sweat was flowing
In cold streams his forehead down,
Down his ill-exhausted body.

He brought, grow feeble and lay still
Under the hut-vault, made of bast plait,
And thus he died under the feet
Of lord unconquarable great.

And lord had saturated then
With such a poison his thin arrows
And sent the death with weapon that
To neighbours in countries alien.

Lyudmila Purgina

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