On The Field of Kulikovo
1
The river spreads wide. Flows sluggish, sad,
and washes at its banks.
Above the yellow cliff’s barren clay,
hayricks stand sadly in the steppe.
O, Russia! My wife! Our long road lies
painfully clear ahead!
The road has pierced our breast like an arrow
fired with ancient Tartar power.
Our road – lies through the steppe – and endless
anguish, your anguish, Russia!
And I no longer even fear, the dark of night
that lies beyond the border.
Let night fall. We’ll gallop on, light with fire
The steppe stretching into distance.
In smoky light the holy banner, the Khan’s
steel-bladed sabre will gleam…
The fight is endless! We can only dream of peace
in blood and dust…
The mare of the steppe flies on and on,
trampling down the feather-grass.
Without end! The miles, the slopes, flash by…
Halt there!
Nearer, nearer, the fearful clouds,
the sunset bleeds!
The sunset bleeds! Blood streams from the heart!
Weep, heart, weep…
No peace! The mare of the steppe
Gallops on!
2
At midnight, You and I, halted in the steppe:
No returning, no looking back.
The swans, beyond the Nepryadva, cried,
and again and again, they cry…
On our road – the white burning stone.
beyond the river – the pagan horde.
Over our host the shining banner
will never again flutter brightly.
And, bending her head towards the ground,
my friend speaks: ‘Sharpen your sword,
So you will not fight the Tartars in vain,
and lay down your life for the holy cause!’
I – I am not the first warrior, nor the last,
the Motherland’s illness will be long.
So pray for your beloved in the dawn
O my wife, fair and bright!
3
That night, when Mamai went to ground
on the steppe, by the bridges,
we were in the dark plain together, You and I –
Did you know this?
Before the Don, ominous and shadowed,
my prophetic heart
heard your voice in the plain at night
in the crying of the swans.
At midnight the prince’s host rose
like a cloud,
while far, far the mother wailed
and beat the stirrup.
And night birds were circling,
far away,
while, over Russia, summer’s silent lightning
guards the prince.
The eagles’ cries above the Tartar camp
foretold disaster,
while the Nepryadva veiled herself
a princess in the mist.
And in the mist that lay above
the sleeping Nepryadva,
You came to me, in a radiant garment,
not even startling my horse.
Like a ripple of silver You flashed
along Your friend’s steel sword,
You lightened the dust-drenched armour
on my shoulders.
And when, at dawn, the horde moved in
like a darkened cloud,
Your image, no human hand ever made,
shone brightly on my shield.
4
Again with age-old anguish
the grass bends to the earth.
Again beyond the misty river
You summon me from afar.
The herd of mares fled the steppe
and vanished without trace,
Wild passions are unleashed
beneath a waning moon.
And I, with age-old anguish
A wolf beneath the waning moon,
know nothing of what to do,
where to fly in your wake!
I hear the roar of battle,
trumpet calls and Tartar cries,
and raging over Russia
a vast and silent fire.
Gripped by immense anguish
I roam on my white horse…
I meet the wandering clouds
high in the misty night.
In my wounded heart
Radiant thoughts arise,
And burning thoughts descend,
Consumed by a darkened flame…
‘Appear, my miraculous miracle!
Teach me how to be radiant!’
The horse’s mane rises…
the swords cry loud on the wind…
5
And dawn was clouded with darkness.
Of ineluctable misfortune.
Soloview
Again, on the field of Kulikovo
the mist rose and spread,
and veiled the dawn of day
like a lowering cloud.
Behind the utter silence,
Behind the spreading mist
You can’t hear the battle’s thunder
Nor the lightning of the fight.
But I know you, Dawn
of exalted, turbulent days!
Over the enemy camp, again,
Swan-cries, and the beat of wings.
The heart cannot rest in peace,
clouds gather and not in vain.
Armour weighs heavy for the fight,
Now your hour is striking. – Pray!
— Aleksándr Blok (1880-1921)
Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2002-2011 All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment