Written by Yaroslav Smelyakov.
If I’m suddenly sick, I’ll refuse to appeal to the doctors,
I’ll appeal to my friends (and I’m in my right mind so far):
Take the steppe for my bed, set the mist as my windows’ curtains,
Put behind my bed’s head, as a candle, the heavenly star.
I walk forth right through all, never think what may say mighty persons.
If I take a hard blow in the rightful and merciless fight,
Bandage my bleeding head with the road through the Russian wood of birches,
And, to cover myself, use the blanket of fall roses’ light.
Take away pills and drops, let the rays gaily shine in my glasses.
I will never take care of the usual remedies else
The hot wind of the sands, silver foam that the waterfall rises —
But such things are essential for recovering one’s broken health.
From the highlands and seas, spreads the freshness of ages around.
Look at them and ye’ll feel that we’re here forever to stay.
Not with boxes for pills will be peppered my road — with white clouds,
When I leave you, my friends, for the flickering, weird Milky Way...