Mikhail Lermontov

Clouds in the heavens, eternally wandering!

Across the blue steppe like a long string of pearls, you go

Quickly, as though you were exiled, as I am now,

From the dear North to the far-distant southern lands.

What is it that drives you? A verdict of Destiny?

Envy felt secretly? Evil done openly?

Or are you burdened by crimes of your own doing?

Or by the venomous slander of friends of yours?

No, you were weary of fields where no harvest grew...

Strangers to passion, and strangers to suffering,

Eternally cold and eternally free, you roam:

You have no homeland, there is no exile for you.


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