Let the tale begin where stories end, But honey-ale won’t flow back to the flagon. The needle – into Koschei’s egg descend, The cat steps back along the golden chain. The sails now carry Tsar Saltan away, Beyond the shores of fabled Buyan’s isle. The swan-princess, so fair in her array, Still hides within the mist a little while. And little squirrel gathers up the shells, Returning nuts to branches of te pine. (Here we reproach Pushkin—the genius grand, But pine trees never bore such nuts, divine!) The kite still circles, silent in the sky, Its hungry eye not seeking easy prey. The city fades, dissolving in a sigh, The waves push back the barrel to the bay. Where Saltan holds his bride in firm embrace, Yet knowing soon their fates will drift apart... The wedding feast! The wisdom in her face, As from her hand the ring departs. The chamber glows; the maidens spin the thread, Their voices weave the yarns of fate and chance. The Tsar departs, no lands he’ll ever tread, Yet rules them still without a backward glance. The Poet was sharp—his Tsar’s name held a clue— His Tsar’s own name held East and Rus entwined. Prince Guidon was named Guidon not in vain— Look to the roots, and truth you might find. The star upon the princess’ brow—third eye, She knows all fates, yet plays the helpless role. She called for rescue, drawing good and sly To clash in battle, wrestling for the soul. That moment made the prince embrace his might, When shadows cast their wings upon her form. The poet wove his lines both dark and bright, Yet hid such depths between them, rich and warm. So raise your hats to genius and his play, Restoring all the patterns he had penned. Once more, the Tsar hides by the window’s bay, And listens to the maidens ’til the end.
Let the tale begin where stories end, But honey-ale won’t flow back to the flagon. The needle – into Koschei’s egg descend, The cat steps back along the golden chain. The sails now carry Tsar Saltan away, Beyond the shores of fabled Buyan’s isle. The swan-princess, so fair in her array, Still hides within the mist a little while. And little squirrel gathers up the shells, Returning nuts to branches of te pine. (Here we reproach Pushkin—the genius grand, But pine trees never bore such nuts, divine!) The kite still circles, silent in the sky, Its hungry eye not seeking easy prey. The city fades, dissolving in a sigh, The waves push back the barrel to the bay. Where Saltan holds his bride in firm embrace, Yet knowing soon their fates will drift apart... The wedding feast! The wisdom in her face, As from her hand the ring departs. The chamber glows; the maidens spin the thread, Their voices weave the yarns of fate and chance. The Tsar departs, no lands he’ll ever tread, Yet rules them still without a backward glance. The Poet was sharp—his Tsar’s name held a clue— His Tsar’s own name held East and Rus entwined. Prince Guidon was named Guidon not in vain— Look to the roots, and truth you might find. The star upon the princess’ brow—third eye, She knows all fates, yet plays the helpless role. She called for rescue, drawing good and sly To clash in battle, wrestling for the soul. That moment made the prince embrace his might, When shadows cast their wings upon her form. The poet wove his lines both dark and bright, Yet hid such depths between them, rich and warm. So raise your hats to genius and his play, Restoring all the patterns he had penned. Once more, the Tsar hides by the window’s bay, And listens to the maidens ’til the end.