The Water-Nymph – Alexander Pushkin

In lakeside leafy groves, a friar Escaped all worries; there he passed His summer days in constant prayer, Deep studies and eternal fast. Already with a humble shovel The elder dug himself a grave – As, calling saints to bless his hovel, Death – nothing other – did he crave. So once, upon a falling night, he Was bowing by his wilted shack With meekest prayer to the Almighty. The grove was turning slowly black; Above the lake a mist was lifting; Through milky clouds across the sky The ruddy moon was softly drifting, When water drew the friar’s eye… He’s looking puzzled, full of trouble, Of fear he cannot quite explain, He sees the waves begin to bubble And suddenly grow calm again. Then — white as first snow in the highlands, Light-footed as nocturnal shade, There comes ashore, and sits in silence Upon the bank, a naked maid. She eyes the monk and brushes gently Her hair, and water off her arms. He shakes with fear and looks intently At her, and at her lovely charms. With eager hand she waves and beckons, Nods quickly, smiles as from afar And shoots, within two flashing seconds, Into still water like a star. The glum old man slept not an instant; All day, not even once he prayed: Before his eyes still hung and glistened The wondrous, the relentless shade… The grove puts on its gown of nightfall; The moon walks on the cloudy floor; And there’s the maiden – pale, delightful, Reclining on the spellbound shore. She looks at him, her hair she brushes, Blows airy kisses, gestures wild, Plays with the waves – caresses, splashes – Now laughs, now whimpers like a child, Moans tenderly, calls louder, louder… “Come, monk, come, monk! To me, to me!..” Then – disappears in limpid water, And all is silent instantly… On the third day the zealous hermit Was sitting by the shore, in love, Awaiting the delightful mermaid, As shade was covering the grove… Dark ceded to the sun’s emergence; Our monk had wholly disappeared – Before a crowd of local urchins, While fishing, found his hoary beard. Translated by: Genia Gurarie, summer of 1995 Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie. email:

By Peace Truth

Life is like a bunch of roses. Some sparkle like raindrops. Some fade when there's no sun. Some just fade away in time. Some dance in many colors. Some drop with hanging wings. Some make you fall in love. The beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Life you can be sure of, you will not get out ALIVE.(sorry about that)