by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov (1814 - 1841)
It's Hell for us to draw the fetters
Of life in alienation, stiff.
All people prefer to share gladness,
And nobody - to share grief.
As a king of air, I'm lone here,
The pain lives in my heart, so grim,
And I can see that, to the fear
Of fate, years pass me by like dreams;
And comes again with, touched by gold,
The same dream, gloomy one and old.
I see a coffin, black and sole,
It waits: why to detain the world?
There will be not a sad reflection,
There will be (I am betting on)
Much more gaily celebration
When I am dead, than - born.
['The Prisoner', Mykola Yaroshenko, 1878]:-