When comes my moment to untether?

Russia has been in my thoughts again. Here's a well-known passage from Pushkin's Evgenii Onegin that I memorized for the class back at Reed College. It spoke to me, for obvious reasons. Of course it's lost in translation, and I ditched trying to translate it myself because trying to communicate the meaning but keep the rhyming scheme at the same time would take some time, so I've included two different translations here that do the trick. It's mostly the restless feeling of wanting to get out of a place, of hungering heavily to set out. To set out again. I've been trapped inside for what seems like weeks - the heat is here 100 to 115 degrees everyday and up until my date of departure. I've been feeding some fantasies of briefly visiting Russia before returning home to the US, even after I told myself I wouldn't! We'll see. White nights are very much in effect there. As I'm told, it's that time of year again when couples wander the streets into all hours of the night, making out in public and bearing all kind of flesh, where the streets are decorated with broken glass and the scent of urine. i know it doesn't sound like much to you, but I will always be nostalgic for the place.


Придет ли час моей свободы?
Пора, пора! - взываю к ней;
Брожу над морем, жду погоды,
Маню ветрила кораблей.
Под ризой бурь, с волнами споря,
По вольному распутью моря
Когда ж начну я вольный бег?
Пора покинуть скучный брег
Мне неприязненной стихии
И средь полуденных зыбей,
Под небом Африки моей,
Вздыхать о сумрачной России,
Где я страдал, где я любил,
Где сердце я похоронил.


Will ever come my freedom, treasured?
It’s time, It’s time! – I call for this!
Roam by sea; wait for some weather,
And lure sails of the distant ships.
Under the storms, with fast waves vying,
Along the waters, freely lying,
When will I start my blessed race?
It’s time to leave the boring place
Of nature that appears so alien,
And midst my African wide lands,
Between blue skies and flaming sands,
To sigh about Russia, sullen,
Where I had suffered and loved,
Where I had buried my heart.


When comes my moment to untether?
it's time! and freedom hears my hail.
I walk the shore, I watch the weather,
I signal to each passing sail.
Beneath storm's vestment, on the seaway,
battling along that watery freeway,
when shall I start on my escape?
It's time to drop astern the shape
of the dull shores of my disfavour,
and there, beneath your noonday sky,
my Africa, where waves break high,
to mourn for Russia's gloomy savour,
land where I learned to love and weep,
land where my heart is buried deep.