Gift haphazard, unavailing,
Life, why wert thou given to me?
Why art thou to death unfailing
Sentencing by dark destiny?
Who in harsh despotic fashion
Once from Nothing called me out,
Filled my soul with burning passion
Vexed and shook my mind with doubt?
I can see no goal before me:
Empty heart and idle mind.
life monotonously o’er me
Roars, and leaves a wound behind.
by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)
translated by C. M. Bowra