Стихи

Since early morning, Anna sang, with artOf sewing and embroidery in making.As songs descended flowing from the yard,His heart gave in to tenderness of aching.That instance Pestel thought: "Young man lacks patience.Too absent-minded, would not even sit.And yet, he harbors hope, as too unfitHis youth is for hypocrisy's temptations.He thought: "As Russia undergoes itsSuccessful bid for liberties and properAuthority in place, a space to prosperShall come to stately nature of his gifts.""In that chibouk of yours — if you could findSome light."                "Well, but of course."                                "Oh, most kind."While Pushkin thought: "He has a potent mind

And mighty will. Though Brutus-like behaviorOf his is misaligned with era's fervor.And wasn't Bonaparte of Brutus kind?"Equality and classes. Less than eagerWas Pushkin on the subject. "With the restTo equalize the paupers? — when at bestConditions for equality are meager.Toward the poor it is gentry's obligation —In dignity to foster education.""Of course," responded Pestel, "since the throneRemains the despot's undisputed booty,The gentry has inalienable dutyTo form the base for changes of its own.""Alas," was Pushkin's answer. Bases ofSuch piety gave rise to Pugachev."The peasantry revolting…"                        Too divineA contrast, Anna's voice was ceaseless labor.

The yard of the Moldavian, old neighbor,Brought scents of sheepskin, cattle-shed, and wine.The day was filled with azure, of the sortThat buckets grace from wells of deepest posture.And voice… that voice with heights on verge of ruptureCaught Pushkin thinking: "Anna! Dear Lord!""Without fight, we peacefully evade,"Came Pestel's protest, "tyranny, its evil.""Ahh, tyranny in Russia — senseless drivel,The tyrants hardly mastered their trade,"Said Pushkin.                "What a truly frisky mind,"Thought Pestel to himself, "A wealth of comments,Yet paucity of reasonable thoughts.""A genius can end the serfdom's torments!""In politics, a genius destructs,"Responded Pushkin.

                        Topics overallWere pleasant in discussion. Of Lycurgus,Of Solon, of St. Petersburg, of focusIn Russia to expend beyond control.Of Asia, of the Caucasus, of Dante,Of insurrection, led by Ipsilanti.They spoke of love, thus thwarting likely pause."Love,"        Pushkin asked, "in your envisioned nationHas merits just for human propagation,Thus being driven by a set of lasting laws?"A smile came to Pestel, void of glee."Materialist at heart,                        I live meanwhileWith reason in discord. His light-eyed smileLed Pushkin to conclude: "And that's the key!"They parted. Pestel sauntered through the breadthOf muddy streets, conspicuous and livid,

As Alexander's absent-minded spiritWas contemplating his departing steps.There walked he, Russian Brutus. Storing grief,The gaze of Russian genius pursued him.The azure and the chill, and ever fulsomeTrees' greenery formed morning's leitmotif.He made a written entry of that phrase —On heart and reason. Dutiful to ponder,He told himself: "And thus, another plotter.What choice we have, but join their ranks."A shabby wagon crept across the village.The hound barked. The branches wrought with leafageWere shaking through the morning's breezy cold.In April, lust for life was filled with yearning.And once again, he heard it — Anna's singing.And gasped through passion:                        "Anna! Dear Lord!"[20]