Konstantin Balmont

We are blessed hordes of freely roaming Scythians,
More than anything we value freedom.
Having quit the castle of Olvia with its wrought griffins,
Hidden from our foes, we will always overtake them.

We have no temples, no gods, only windblown clouds
That shine like a reverent ray from East to West.
We only pile dark kindling for the god of war
And decorate the tops of our pyres with an iron sword.

Like locusts we fly, like locusts we fall upon foreign lands,
And fearlessly slake our avid souls.
Having dipped our arrows in the snake's lethal bile,
We will always aim our bows accurately at our foe.

Thundering, we fall upon our foe and rope him,
Then set a reckless course for another virgin land.
Our joy is war-our sure strength, the quiver,
Our pride, a swift horse that knows no rest.

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