Eduard Bagritsky
Black bread

Black bread and a faithful wife
Have made us anemic, undone us for life...

Our years have been tested by hoof and by stone,
The waters we drink of with wormwood are strewn,
The taste of the wormwood is stinging our lips...
The knife does not fit the grip of our fists,
The pen does not suit us, but we have grown
Too proud for the pickax, and yet for us
Glory no longer is glorious:
We're the rusty leaves
Upon rusty oaks...
When the wind blows,
When the cold grows,
We fall in droves.
On whose path are we spread?
Whose feet will yet tread
The carpet our thick rust weaves?
Will the young trumpeters trample us? Will
Strange constellations rise in our skies?
We're the last warmth nestling in rusty oaks...
We drive the warmth off in our homeless chill...
We fly off into the night!
We fly off into the night!
We fly like ripe stars, as blind in our flight.
Over us the young trumpeters tramp,
Over us strange constellations rise,
Over us whip the flags of an unknown camp...
When the wind blows,
When the cold grows,
Fly after them,
Fling after them,
Over the meadows roll along,
On the steppes break into song!
Trailing the bayonets where through the clouds they gleam,
Trailing the hoofbeat where the forest shadows teem,
Trailing the call of the trumpet drowned in the forest's dream.

Translated by Babette Deutsch