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by Michael Shcherbakov
translated by Yury Nesterenko

For greater glory of your Greece and each adjoining sea -
We will take our ten-winged ship and we'll name her "Argo".
We'll leave the snows and sail to south as far as eye can see.
I'll be the helmsman of the ship and you will sing, Margot.

By those ten-millenial songs which are so wondrous still,
By ancient maps of mythic lands it will be opportune
To learn the language of your gods - I always had a will
To understand its crystal words, to know its golden tune.

The water, where, like a reed, a rocky land had grown,
Will not bestow us a bliss, but won't stop our breath,
It's warm without blood or tears, and salty on its own.
It's troubled not by our life, nor more by our death.

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