Alexander Blok
On The Field of Kulikovo. 4. Now again the feather-grass...

4

Now again the feather-grass
Is bent to earth with ancient pain,
Again, from past the river's mist,
From the distance, I hear you call my name.

The herds of horses on the steppe
Have vanished, leaving none behind;
Terrible passions have escaped
Under the yoke of the waning moon.

And I, with ancient pain myself,
A wolf beneath the waning moon.
Do not know what to do with myself,
Which way to fly within your wake.

I listen to the battle roaring,
The trumpet-calls, the Tartars' shouts,
I see a stretching conflagration
Raging silently over Russia.

In the grip of awful pain
I wander now on my white horse...
I meet the clouds that freely range
High up in the night of mists.

Luminous thoughts begin to rise
Within my lacerated heart
And luminous thoughts begin to fail,
Engulfed in a dark fire.

"Appear to me, my marvellous marvel.
Teach me to be luminous!"
My horse s mane begins to shiver...
In the wake of the wind, the cries of swords...

Translated by Denis Johnson and Kathy Lewis