Aleksey Koltsov
Tell Me Why

Tell me,
My beloved sickle,
Why you are now as black
As my hair?

Is it because you’ve been sprinkled
With the tears of a maiden
Grieving for the loss
Of her dearest one?

In the wide steppes
Of the quiet-flowing Don
The green grass
Has long ago been mown;

The scythers in the village
Were married long ago;
Only he is absent,
My clear-eyed falcon.

Did he leave his home
No longer loving me,
Never to return,
To his sweetheart?

Oh, that is not a bird flying
Up there in the sky,
But sad rumours of him
Hanging in the air...

The pain presses upon
My snow-white breasts;
There are tears I want to shed,
But they are not for joy.

Translated by Anthony Phillips