JOSEPH BRODSKY
Inside the cave (an off-plumb dugout,
But a roof above their heads, for all that),
Inside the cave the three felt close
In the fug of fodder and old clothes.
Straw for bedding. Beyond the door,
Blizzard, sandstorm, howling air.
Mule rubbed ox; they stirred and groaned
Like sand and snowflake scourged in wind.
Mary prays; the fire soughs;
Joseph frowns into the blaze.
Too small to be fit to do a thing
But sleep, the Infant is just sleeping.
Relief for now. They’ve gained a day:
Herod off his head, his army
Outwitted but still closing in,
And the centuries also, one by one.
That night, as three, they were at peace.
Smoke like a shy retiring guest
Slipped out the door. There was one far-off
Heavy sigh from the mule. Or the ox.
The star looked in across the threshold.
The only one of them who could
Know what its fervent staring meant
Was the Infant. But He was infans, silent.
(Translated, from the Russian, by Seamus Heaney)
2000