Here Pushkin’s Endless Exile Has Begun

Here Pushkin's endless exile has begun,

And Lermontov's exile turned out fatal,

The mountain grass has a smell so sweet and gentle,

And only once I managed to discern,

By the lake under the dense shade of a chinara,

In the early evening and ferocious trice

The glare of insatiable dark eyes

Of the immortal lover of Tamara.