Already sadly the evening changed its color from
crimson to a grayish-violet.
I shoveled the blue snow from the house
and stopped... A deep blue orchestral
lament flowed into me. It wept
and choked on the dry frost:
and fell green to the firs
that reddened above by the road,
then echoed mutely somewhere in the garden.
And it wafted from the moon in the breeze,
like a tone not built on harmony,
there thousands of orchestras played together,
mixing motifs...
Everything changes, becomes renewed, hurries, bleeds blood in wounds, beats the breast
out of sadness, becomes clogged with silt, becomes dust, passes along all of itself
to the damp earth.
Over whom did those surmas weep?
Why did the cymbals clang?
And when the drum beats as though it were a chest—
whose lifetime had ended?
…The crimson color died out.
A cloud glistened
watery green. The world appeared opaque—
like an x-ray…
And I jumped up and began to run! It was just
this kind of evening two years ago
as I said good-bye to my friend. A fiery horse
then bolted off into the distance and disappeared… And the days
passed—the war struck. And I heard about
my friend: the entire country
was proud of him, he, who like a plow
had driven into the enemy! And serpent’s blood
rose around him up to his knees…
And my friend Yaroslav, even after that
was often on everyone’s lips. There was
a vicious battle for Kharkiv. Our guys surrounded it with determination. All the same
it wasn’t an even battle, and Yaroslav
was forced to fight all night in the glow of fires
against eight of the enemy. He deserved
even more glory when he saved people whom the Nazis had planned
to hang. He fought with the army to take back a village,
and he died there… His death is teaching me
to grow angry, incredibly angry! I heard about you, my friend,
on the radio—and suddenly in my eyes your casket
began to loom… I wanted so—
to see you in your casket at least!
Everything changes, becomes renewed, hurries…
…And before me
your catalfaque swayed as though in a dream.
On reaching the procession, I looked
into the closed casket, though I knew well
that Yaroslav was not here: they’re burying him
without me… there… at the front! And the orchestra
began to sob again.
Everything changes, becomes renewed, hurries,
Everything passes into new forms in the world.
And it’s strange! The surmas are playing,
soldiers are marching in procession, and I
(in no way can I rid myself of my split feelings)
watch as a beet-colored stream
disappears at sunset… And I’m not interested –
Over whom were the surmas weeping?
Or why did the cymbals clang?
And when the drum beat as though it were a chest—
whose lifetime had ended?
Whom then—do I need to ask?
there is a warrior in this casket—that means one who defended
freedom, freedom in our land! It began
to dawn over the entire world from us. Along just such a field
a flower has bloomed—
of brotherhood and friendship… the star of Slavdom
already has shone on the West!.. And here—out of time
the yowling of Nazi butchery began,
It sharpened its claws—and wounded us all
sparing no one… The orchestra is playing
somberly, but it seems to me: this is a lament
from Ukraine… Let the surmas sob!
Let them unleash the grief of the widow and mother,
who walk behind the casket, they grieve
and weep—stretching out their hands… You!
Thrice-damned Nazis! You will never
conquer us! Why are you
torturing innocent people? Because
you’re superior? More noble? It’s all a lie!
Nobility doesn’t help a dog—
much less a wolf.
…As though it were a wolf on its paws—
in the west a cloud bared its teeth.
Dusk fell. The orchestra grew silent,
and it became quiet… The Wolf Company
passed through the mill to meet us. They had transported
linen to the military hospital on sleds. Children
passed by with a dog. In a hoarse tone
the factory whistled and grew quiet. It was about to turn dark.
And the city changed before our eyes. The snow
on the street shone like phosphorous.
From the lantern of the procession a shaft of a ray
kept shining ahead... Sadness lay upon me—
and my soul sang a requiem with the choir.
Everything changes, becomes renewed, hurries,
bleeds blood in wounds, out of sadness
beats the breast, becomes clogged up with silt, becomes dust,
passes along all of itself to the damp earth.
Everything passes into new forms in the world, abides in darkness—and on the sun as though in paradise. From land to land a person wanders across the entire world in order to lay out their eternity again.
And every day, and every clear hour
the earth splits open and closes.
And it grinds a person in its teeth
like a chance serpent of chaos.
But no, life holds a strict progression,
And what appears to be chaos is delicate harmony.
Look at history: a readiness to do battle
illuminates you with all its faceted mirrors.
A readiness to stand up in battle for your freedom
for oppressed nations and the disenfranchised slave.
You will not attain immortality if you find no place
to ford across the battle of truth.
And the earth itself is not a serpent, but your mother,
who always carries and caresses you…
No one can break the laws of battle,
No one can change the laws of motherhood.
And the fact that movement in the world happens in leaps and bounds, not smoothly,
Tell us: Go! Only our path is true!
You drink blood, you fascist Nazi blood suckers!
You’ll get yours—don’t worry!—you won’t be given
any water!
And you’ll croak without water. Your people will remain
Who will, if not itself a slave, will awaken to
battle.
Everything changes, becomes renewed, hurries,
Moves to a bright populist era.
You are accustomed to stealing—like a robber.
And you’ll end up plucked like a bird.
Everything changes, grows moldy, becomes rumpled,
like creative clay in the hands of a sculptor.
But the sculptor is the nation itself that stands,
does not bend,
though you rush to make him your slave.
Everything rises, awakens, grows and laughs,
And you, the dead one—cannot kill us the living.
…The orchestra began to play. Our entire procession
turned into an alley—
and the fires of the factory flashed… Up to the skies
it somehow became higher: the bright muzzles
of the projectors cut all the way
to the skies—and began to shift…
The slabs, like tassels of banners,
scraps of needles from snow-covered pines
hung down…
Everything changes, becomes renewed, hurries,
bleeds blood in wounds, beats the breast
out of its sadness, becomes clogged up with silt, becomes dust,
then rises again from beneath the earth.
Ah! We’re already at the cemetery.
They halted the horses. Took the casket
in their hands gingerly. (Like sugar-coated candy—
powdery snow sprinkled from the trees and snowily
rolled down from my eyelid). I grasped the casket
to put it on my shoulder. We carried it,
and everyone caught up to us (because life
rushes)—one with heavy ropes,
one with a shovel. And each sank
in the snow—as all of us were sinking. All the same
we made our way somehow through the crosses. The frost
had settled in for the night. With our sacred burden
we made our way to the grave and, taking the casket
from our shoulders, we placed it on the clay
that had come off from the edges.
“The red sword!”
An orator blared, “protects the whole country
From the Nazis!” (A neighboring meadow
Suddenly began to rustle. A woman fell with a shout:
“Open up the casket!... Son, give me your hand!
Oh, what did my child ever do to you?”
…And a second followed after her—but not with lament,
But with the howling of sobbing: “Wake up,
Stepan, wake up!”) “With this sword!”
The speaker said again, “you should
Slash off the Teuton’s head! All our equipment
Rises to battle, all our living forces.
A partisan shakes our hand
From Yugolsavia! Insurrectionists have already
begun to ring to the examination of those
sacred knives in Poland! Bachka, Transcarpathia
is seething!.. The anger of the people in no way has quieted
even in the Czech lands! There more than one tyrant
has scattered into rags... Brothers! He, who defended
his homeland will live in the
centuries!”
The orator quieted for a moment,
pointed to the casket and said: “Stepan
has been tortured for Ukraine... you’d hardly recognize him.
And here – he’s been brought home.”
(At those words his wife and mother again
began to sob. We stood in the nighttime
gloom like shadows. The silent
frost thoroughly burned our soul!) “Heroes
know no fear! Their bright deed
calls us: Against the enemy! To our weapons!”
...Here a volley thundered. It kicked up
as if a storm touched all with its wing.
And crying, shouting, and moaning!.. And something
heavy floated into the earth... And the grave
swallowed him. And they began to sprinkle clods
of earth on him. And the coffin hollowly
droned. And shouts were mixed
with the sobbing of the orchestra. A single star
twinkled in the sky...
And the surmas sadly wept.
The cymbals clanged resoundingly.
And the drum beat as though inside a chest:
you ended your life in glory.
... And I cried myself out!
I don’t know: how and with whom I returned.
The entire earth shone in phosphorus...
And a requiem in my soul was being sung:
Everything changes, becomes renewed, hurries,
bleeds blood in wounds, beats the breast
out of its sadness, becomes clogged up with silt, becomes dust,
then rises again green from beneath the earth.
And when I returned home: in the courtyard
my shovel was still sticking out in the snow.
The dark
silence was oh so bitter. Just up high
a greenish
star twinkled...
Twinkle, shine and beam! We’ll wait until
we bury all the beasts in a cramped grave
with our spade! Here-here
we’ll overthrow their force...
Everything rises, awakens, grows and laughs.
We will fight for we are alive!
And we will not stop avenging the enemy!
Until we step on the Nazi head
with our foot.
Though it is difficult for us,
though our wounds are painful –
we will not let the enemies
engorge themselves on us!
I didn’t speak to anyone in the house:
I threw myself onto the hard bed to fall asleep.
...And your catalfaque swayed in my eyes,
and you could hear –
Everything rises, awakens, grows and laughs.
and you could hear –
Everything passes into new forms in the world.
And you, the dead one—cannot kill us the living.
And it was as if Stepan had gotten up and was walking,
and Yaroslav was with him. It’s spring! Azure blue!
Tractors are riding into the field. And a singing lark
howls. And the young
generation is flying here on horses
from behind the mountain. And he, who is leading them,
speaks: “We are borrowing
your knowledge from you now –
to fight the enemy! The nation ached
in suffering, in grief. But the nation has not died –
we will defeat the fascists, we will!”
And it was as if all, having drank the water
that Yaroslav’s and Stepan’s mother
had carried out to them, they closed their ranks
and flew off into battle. And glory
accompanied them – up, up
in airplanes...
And here suddenly
I awakened Oh, it’s already dark! Night.
The predatory hand of the snowstorm knocked
on the old, thin walls. The snow rustled
along the pane... Oh, what is that? Where am I?
Suddenly I remembered everything. And already
I couldn’t keep my eyelids shut. The powerful idea
of freedom and the justice of life
lifted me like a child in one’s arms,
and everything became visible, as if in the palm of my hand.
We will go on living – both you and I!
We’ll wind around like ivy along that column.
We’ll rebuild the cities, we’ll plant
the gardens, we’ll lift up individuality.
So be gone now, spirit of the fascist horde!
Be gone and don’t stain the conscience of a person!
Why have you stood up, damned one, on the path?
What is the reason for the satanic arena
of your humiliations? You are dead in life!
You’re already dead!
And frightfully in the darkness
a blizzard began to howl like that siren...
After listening for a minute, I lay down again.
And I so wanted to go to the Dnipro-Slavuta!
Snow rustled along the pane...
And I could hear –
the surmas weeping somewhere there,
the cymbals quietly clanged,
and a drum continued to hollowly beat:
– In glory you –
ended
your life...
1942