I pass through the cemetery.
Summer is still sitting at its plentiful table,
the day still wears an open collar,
but something in nature is sobbing.
Sway, terraces of trees, –
today You’re in such pain!..
The wind, the wind whips
tormenting an oak a maple
a somber dream on clouds
again this is an autumn wind
Summer is still sitting at its plentiful table,
But there’s already jaundice in the leaves.
Growing yellow.
To sleep.
First here, then there.
throughout the entire cemetery.
A beautiful dream! A terraced dream!
But where is the meaning in it? What is its aim?
Who dreams it? from where does it come?
(Ai! Ai-ye!)
Or perhaps only the dead see in their dreams? –
blood?
and battle?
If only once to hear that language,
with which the other world believes!
O no, the other world will not dawn.
Only an echo once in a while... muddled... reaches us.
a-ye... A-ye...
The wind will call out
bending an oak maple
a somber dream on clouds
again this is an autumn wind
The hillocks have lain down in arches.
Graves, like piglets, have swollen,
and above them
crosses.
In torn shirts, in worker’s jackets,
after a sleepless night, they run and fall,
and they become entangled in a leaf, like in factory whistles.
And following them
black monuments reflect scornful laughter with their mirror-eyes:
“The last thing one needs here is you!”
“Yes, yes, right here!
We’re from under the yoke, out of prison!
The liberating wind is with
us.”
I listen closely:
I bear within myself
a voice that grows fuller.
The living – long ago have diffused into cells,
a cell – into the earth, into the verdure, into the rustling.
And all that protest, that fire that they had,
now has become the verdure and the rustling.
Resound, resound, lush treetops,
oh, windy epoch of ours!
Pass through from the old cemetery,
oh, melody of mine.
Wherever I go – a semicircle.
Wherever I stand – an oval!
The clouds arched their backs.
Leaves wheel along the road.
.and the entire azure sail
carries my round soul
on oars into eternity –
–oh, melody of mine –
So what is the matter, heart? You’re lamenting, crying?
That we’re incapable of embracing the world,
not even a fraction of it?
(the wind whips)
Is it not so, my love? A river of thought
and radio currents, like a frenzied hand,
will opendoor the universe. And there will be no lock.
(the wind calls)
Is it no so, my darling?
Yes, yes, the misery and sloth will disappear.
The enmity of nations, too.
and the boundaries of planets will push open,
and we will repeat our circle
in our constant growth
toward eternity!...
And all the same it will not always be clear:
the verdure... the rustling...
“The rustling – it’s unclear, isn’t it?”
this blood, and the destruction of the old...
A creaky voice from the grave
was carried to me by the wind in a stream.
“Unclear, right, it’s unclear?”
And I see, another one awakens:
your heart has awakened me,
that sensitive heart of yours.
Oh, brother, call out the graveyard!
Look at all that blackness!
We’ll strike to the east together,
and the west will extend us a hand.
And old men already are there to help,
a great quantity of landowners, of offertory priests...
Just think, we’d be living once again
if only you would lead us.
I look – the specters come again...
I fly downward from a hillock, I run!
And opposite me is a withered sun,
And the wind cuts scabs upon scabs...
And the wind hurls scabs upon scabs
into my eyes, my soul, my breast, my mouth...
Where are you rushing to, madman?
Stop! Damn you!
I listen closely:
I bear within myself
a voice that grows fuller.
The living – long ago have diffused into cells,
a cell – into the earth, into the verdure, into the rustling.
And all that protest, that fire that they had,
now has become the verdure and the rustling.
Resound, resound, lush treetops,
o, windy epoch of ours!
Pass through from the old cemetery,
o, melody of mine.
The clouds arched their backs. The hilltops bent.
And who reflects whom – I don’t know, I don’t.
Only all this stirs and speaks,
and swings the prematurely born verdure and gold and blood,
blood...
And in this stirring,
like the quick fingering of a harp in an orchestra –
the quivering of aspen leaves.
And in this stirring, just before dawn somewhere,
is the apron of a birch.
And unexpectedly
a bird...
And all this swings, and stirs, and speaks.
1921