Eduard Bagritsky
Because of black bread and faithful wives...

Because of black bread and faithful wives,
Pernicious anaemia has poisoned our lives.

By hoof and by stone the years have been tried,
With wormwood immortal the waters are dyed —
The bitterness lingers, it won’t be forgotten...
We can’t handle knives,
The pen is a worry,
The pick-axe demeans us,
Our glory’s no glory,
We’re just rotten leaves
On oak-trees gone rotten...

A breath
From the North,
And off we all fly.
On whose path like a carpet are we going to lie?
Whose feet will pass over our rot and disease?
Are we to be trampled on by the young trumpeters?
Are strange constellations about to rise over us?
We’re the windblown shelter of rotten oak-trees...
With homeless cold we’ll put comfort to flight...
We go into the night!
We go into the night!
Like fully ripe stars, at random we fly...
We hear them roar past overhead, the young trumpeters,
And strange constellations begin to rise over us,
And alien banners are filling the sky...
A breath
From the North —
Quick, ride in pursuit of them.
Race in pursuit of them.
Chase in pursuit of them

Over the steppes,
And sing out in the plains!
Go after the bayonet glittering bright,
The drumming of hooves in the forest retreat,
The call of the trumpet that waxes and wanes...

Translated by Alex Miller