Your epoch is not for trying. It's for living and for dying. There is no blander pose Than to bargain and protest, As if times could these for those Be exchanged upon request. Every age seems Age of Iron, But a garden shines inspiring, And a rainbow. I, at eight, Had to die of scarlet fever. Never mind - live on, believer In the age of better fate. So, your era's a disaster ... Is Ivan the Terrible your master? Daydreaming of the Florentine Plague? Or envy comfort riding of the slave in cargo ship, or hiding In a lepra quarantine? Every age seems Age of Iron, But a garden shines inspiring, And a rainbow. When I'm done, I'll embrace my fate, my era. For, the time's a trial where You don't envy anyone. The embrace is tight and dire. Time is skin, and not attire. Everlasting are its stains. From our own marks and etchings One the age's faithful sketches Can like fingerprints obtain. 1978 Alexander Kusher Transl. Alexander Givental