We are but galley-slaves confined.
The salted water seethes and sighs.
The legionaries' whips remind
Of slave-labor paradise.
Our music is the fetters' chime,
The shackles' clanging fugue we hear.
We dream of church-cups in our time,
The father's roof, the homeland dear.
The ship will reach some harbor wall.
But not for us the rest from pain.
Our path lies to the future's call
Through dense and humid air's domain.
Legion on legion, file on file,
The overseers' caste will go,
And we shall scatter dreams, the while,
With hope and faith and love aglow.
The hour will come - the ports will grant
No anchorage to ships that run.
The wind will rage, both wild and gaunt,
And cliffs loom from the fog, begun!..
Then rise to meet the deathly shore,
Give praise for the return to chaos - 
The darkling life, so long before,
Will grasp your destiny's great law!..
Again the rainbow sears the sight,
The oarlocks' screech assails the ear.
The ocean threatens with its might,
Tormented by the oars' career.
-ґ-ґ-ґ-ґ-ґ-ґ-ґ-ґ
Перевод И. Перцовской