SUNSET I
I walk on, forward.
Somewhere, there, behind me is the sunset.
It threw its feverishly-yellow bullet onto the villages.
and waits...
And there are fumes and smoke,
and rooks above the cemetery...
I walk on, forward.
There, where the rails run parallel without end,
where sleepy dusk fades and grows dense.
And the final glance of the evening spins a web
on reflecting windows, on towers, on churches.
Cataracts of dove-colored puddles
reflect the crimson tops of poplars
and in half-closed ripples cower from the wind.
And wind carries the dust, swings posters and at bazaars
shakes up signboards the way a bandit shakes a city dweller...
The city very nearly falls asleep, swoons, forever growing mute.
no bread, no water, no friendly courtesy.
They carried off a corpse.
Sidewalks picked up their purses and dispersed.
And suddenly before me
with a gruff luster it became alive.
Blood boiled, and a brain splattered onto a fence.
And my shadow, like the shadow of a titan,
fell the length of the street heading somewhere...
And it became horrifying, just like at a great fire!
Be damned! It’s you who bloomed so sweetly,
so that now we have only corpses, corpses and blood!
Will it not be the last time you play?
Somewhere, there, behind me is the sunset...
SUNSET II
No, I can’t resist, I’ll look back –
the west is like a tilled volcanic field!
It’s because Barbusse is there,
because Rolland is there.
I’ll look back – the entire earth
is an ocean of blazes!
It’s because, there, just as I do,
they cast their own shadow.
The shadow titans itself to the east,
I grow, I rise,
I proffer my hand to the strong
across the nation and my kin.
Above the heads of tribes
I saw you.
Oh, time
is blessed!
1921
THE SUN GREW FEEBLE...
The sun grew feeble. A hot violet color burns
on the buildings.
The last ray of light, like a stiletto,
stabbed the maple tree for autumn. A woman
takes down the wash. Around her
the wind swirled
and to its own tune began twirling dust around
her pink legs and full neck...
Just like in Hellas! The wind from the sea
puffs up the front of her blouse... What beauty!
And suddenly a quarrel: are you stealing? from despair? –
They’re pulling each other’s hair... The maple tree expires
and heals, then becomes tarnished.
The children play a game of war.
And – a dog is with them,
the “patriot” of his yard... So the day
ends. Above the city the din seethes.
The thin frost takes on all kinds of tones.
Only the mad steam engines
continuously whoop for someone every minute.
Let there be movement! Hearts! Wisdom!
Let there even be ferocious battle! –
Only in this way can the human being
and the entire material of life renew itself.
1920
EASTER SUNDAY
I walk back along Blacksmith Street. The sun
is just barely visible. This way: like a shadow
touched with a brush. The poplar is much redder!..
They’re still breaking their fast, there still is silence,
such laziness over everything!
Thin ice. Jackdaws have grown hoarse overnight,
but all the same... Behind them, everywhere, there’s chirping,
somewhere there’s a pigeon in echoing niches...
They’re still breaking their fast, there still is silence,
such laziness over everything!
Why do I hear the peal?
Why is there boldness in me?
What kind of flotilla
from the unconquerable heights
develops such furious speed?
Where is the bell from?
And from where in my breast is this boundless feeling?
It’s not Easter Sunday or Christmas.
a new, modern, solemn feast
is stirring and approaching.
And when it gets close and falls.
many of us will be blinded.
Such is the light there,
such is the flight of thought there.
that many of us will go blind.
Not that we are too old,
but just because it’s too hard
to trust the grandiose,
to accept such a large dose
of paganism.
How blinding is the sun! The green sky
is so blue. What a day!
It’s already daytime, and we still are in the churches,
and then we’ll break our fasts in our burrows
and will sing our songs.
It’s already completely daytime!
1921
THE FIRST OF MAY ON EASTER
Easter rain
along the sidewalk sil-
ky verdure
sprouted from beneath the earth.
This is Christ who is risen
to quietly raise the dead
the wind quietly maplebowed
the day.
Suddenly right here! suddenly!
an orchestra broke through:
it’s not Christ who is risen –
but the Working Class.
Suddenly right here! suddenly!
a procession of workers
is there a redder
holiday than this May?
It thundered, it rang out,
with a stamping it started off the
day maplebowed
the silky verdure.
1921