Скифы - Version 1 - Александр Блок @TheLegendaryPoet

Alexander Blok's poem "Scythians" is a powerful poetic manifesto, presenting Russia as an elemental, dual force standing between Europe and Asia. Blok speaks for a Russia that rejects Europe's arrogance while simultaneously harboring the energies of both East and West. The poem warns: if Europe does not extend a hand to Russia, it could be engulfed by the Eastern elements, the fury and chaos that Russia holds within itself. "Scythians" is the image of a nation on the border—barbarically strong, tragically lonely, weary of hostility, yet capable of enormous historical might. The poem is permeated with tension, prophetic intonations, a sense of an impending turning point in time, and an attempt to comprehend Russia's role in the global conflict of the early 20th century. From a historical perspective, "Scythians" reflects a tense turning point of the era: the poem was written in 1918, immediately after the Revolution and at the height of Russia's break with Europe—political, cultural, and ideological. Blok portrays Russia as a borderland civilization that for centuries held off the onslaught of Eastern forces while simultaneously striving for European culture. In the lines, "You have gazed to the East for hundreds of years, // Hoarding and smelting our pearls," the poet reminds Europe that it enjoyed Russia's wealth and energy while remaining coldly aloof. And the lines, "Yes, we are Asians, with slanted and greedy eyes!" demonstrate a conscious embrace of the image of "barbarism"—not as an insult, but as a symbol of a primordial, unbridled force capable of destroying the established order. The final warning is, "For the last time—come to your senses, old world!" — sounds like a prophecy: if Europe fails to understand Russia, it will face a catastrophe brought on by an unstoppable historical force. Thus, the poem becomes an artistic reflection of the revolutionary rift and the understanding of Russia's new role in the global conflict and the future of civilization. 🪶 Scythians - Alexander Blok (1918) Pan-Mongolism! Though the name is wild, But it's soothing to our ears... Vladimir S. Soloviev Millions of you. We are legions, legions, legions. Try and fight us! Yes, we are Scythians! Yes, we are Asians, With slanted and greedy eyes! For you—centuries, for us—a single hour. We, like obedient serfs, held a shield between two hostile races of the Mongols and Europe! For centuries, your old forge forged And drowned out thunder and avalanches, And the collapse of Lisbon and Messina was a wild tale to you! For hundreds of years you gazed to the East Smelting and smelting our pearls, And you, mocking, counted only the time When to point the cannons' muzzles! Behold, the time has come. Trouble beats its wings, And each day multiplies the insults, And the day will come—there will be no trace Of your Paestums, perhaps! O, old world! Before you perish, While you languish in sweet torment, Stop, wise as Oedipus, Before the Sphinx with its ancient riddle! Russia—the Sphinx. Rejoicing and grieving, And drenched in black blood, She looks, looks, looks at you With hatred and with love!.. Yes, to love as our blood loves, None of you has loved for a long time! Have you forgotten that there is love in the world, Which both burns and destroys! We love everything—the heat of cold numbers, And the gift of divine visions, Everything is clear to us—the sharp Gallic meaning, And the dark German genius… We remember everything—the hell of Parisian streets, And the coolness of Venice, The distant scent of lemon groves, And the smoky masses of Cologne… We love flesh—its taste and color, And the stifling, mortal scent of flesh… Are we to blame if your skeleton crunches In our heavy, tender paws? We've become accustomed to grabbing the reins Of spirited, playful horses, To breaking their heavy sacrums, And taming their obstinate slaves... Come to us! From the horrors of war Come into peaceful embraces! Before it's too late—sheathe the old sword, Comrades! We will become—brothers! And if not—we have nothing to lose, And treachery is within our grasp! For centuries, centuries, your sick, late offspring will curse you! We will make way for beautiful Europe, through the wilds and forests! We will turn to you With our Asian faces! Come, all of you, come to the Urals! We clear the battlefield Of steel machines, where the integral breathes, With the wild Mongolian horde! But we ourselves are no longer your shield, From now on we will not enter the battle ourselves, We will watch the mortal battle rage, With our narrow eyes. We will not move when the ferocious Hun Rifles through the pockets of corpses, Burns cities, and drives the herd into the church, And fries the flesh of our white brothers!.. For the last time—come to your senses, old world! To the fraternal feast of labor and peace, For the last time to the bright fraternal feast, The barbarian lyre calls! #Music #Poetry #Poem #Verse #Blok #Poet