Poetry
by A. A. Golenishtchev-Kutusov
A child moans,
A candle dimly glimmers, flickering.
All night the mother rocks the cradle, sleepless.
Early, very early in the morning, compassionate death
Comes to the door.
Knock!
The frightened mother looks about in alarm.
(Death) “Enough fear, my friend!
Pale morning already looks through the windows.
Crying, suffering, loving, you will tire.
Nap a little, I will sit for you.
You weren’t able to soothe your child,
I will sing sweeter than you.”
(Mother) “Quiet! My child’s flailing, beating soul tortures mine!”
(Death) “Well, I will quickly quiet him; Hush, my little one, my own.”
(Mother) “His cheeks are paling, his breathing is weakening. Shut up, I beg
you!”
(Death) “It’s a good sign, his suffering eases; Hush, my little one, my own.”
(Mother) “Get away, cursed one! With your caresses you will extinguish my
joy.”
(Death) “No. I will give him peaceful sleep. Hush, my little one, my own.”
(Mother) “Have pity, stop singing your horrible song for just a minute!”
(Death) “You see, he fell asleep to my quiet song. Hush, my little one,
my own”.
Languorous, magical dark blue night.
Trembling spring twilight.
With bowed head, a sickly young woman
listens to the still murmurs of the night.
Sleep has not closed her eyes.
Life pleads with joy not to fade,
But in the silence of midnight, Death sings a serenade:
“In the darkness of cruel captivity, your youth fades.
I, an errant knight, unknown to you, will free you by my magic power.
Stand up, look at yourself.
You are beautiful.
Your face shines, your cheeks rosy.
Dark tresses like clouds envelope your body.
Your light blue eyes brighter than the moon,
Shine like the skies,
Your breath hot as a midday fire.
You charm me…
Over you I have cast a spell with my serenade.
Your whisper was calling me.
Your knight is here to claim his supreme reward.
Your hour of bliss has come.
Your body so soft, and your enchanting charm,
Oh, I will strangle you in my strong embrace.
Lover, hear my whisper…
Be silent…
You are mine!”
Forest and fields, not a soul around.
A storm cries and moans.
It seems as if snow rides the gloom of the night.
Evil buries someone.
Look, so it is!
A peasant is embraced, caressed by Death.
He dances a trepak with the little drunk,
And hums a tune in his ear…
“Oh, poor little old man,
You got so drunk you lost your way,
But the storm witch rose up
And pushed you from field to forest,
Drowsy, not knowing she snatched you.
Poor peasant, you are plagued with needs and suffering.
Lie down and sleep, my camerade!
I love you, my little friend,
And with the snow flying all around you a great game I will contrive.
Spread a fluffy bed, my darling storm!
Come, begin! Start the weather singing!
I will tell you such a tale that it will last all night,
And you are so drunk that my story will put you to sleep.
Hear, you forest, heavens and clouds, darkness, wind and flying snow;
Make a soft swaddling blanket of snow and cover this old man like an infant.
Sleep happily, my little peasant friend…”
Summer has come, has blossomed.
Over the grain, the little sun is laughing,
And the peasants with the sickles are strolling
And singing a little tune.
The doves are flying.
The battle thunders, armor flashes,
Copper weapons howl,
The troops run, hurrying.
Horses rearing and rivers flowing red.
Noon blazes, men battle.
The sun yields, the battle rages.
Evening comes, but the enemies hold on
and fight ever more fiercely and cruelly.
Only when night falls, the troops withdrawing,
Cease to fight.
All is quiet.
Only the moans of the wounded disturb the silence
In the night and fog.
In the moonlight, riding forward, his bones glittering,
Appears Death.
He listens to the wailing and the praying.
He hears, and is proud and satisfied.
The commander in chief surveys the battleground.
He climbs a hill and looks down,
And leers with contempt.
In a loud voice he proclaims…
“The battle is over. I defeated you all.
You are all subdued.
Life made you enemies. Death has united you.
Rise up together and pass in review.
March past me, then lie down.
I want to count my armies.
(I) bury your bones in the ground.
It will be sweet for you to rest.
Year after year after year will pass by.
Men will forget you, and your graves will be forgotten.
But I will remember and celebrate in the midnight hours at your bed.
You will stay, sleeping there, where you are lying.
So I command it. I defy all of you.
I will dance so heavily upon your graves
That you will never rise from the dead.”