Heavy heap of high mountains, covered
With moss, forest, snow, ice and savage nakedness;
Ugly dump of barren rocks, washed by
Turbid water, poured forth from their peaks;
Row of unsightly walls, broken, pitted,
Uninhabited, awful in their void,
Where rarely one hears only the cry of hungry eagles,
Pecking at carrion in a dense flock;
Famous chain of celebrated Caucasus,
Impenetrable, barren land,
Den of robbers, poetry of plague!
Without use, without beauty, since when are you glorious?
Are you god's creation or the devil's prank?
Tell me, damn you, why were you created?
End of 1834