Innokenty Annensky
July

Scorched by the fire of the sky’s unmoving body,
The pick-ax stops clanging out its accursed lesson.
And nailed onto the earth, the piled autumnal haystacks
Of sleeping working-men are black as any downpour.

The last decision of some dark and savage forces,
A vertical ray’s call, inaudible to people,
And those lines of lean legs amidst smoky confusion.
Of the disheveled beards, of torn and tattered headgear.

Is not this whirling world many times terrifying
Does not one want to run away and hide so quickly?
Just think: In the arms of their mothers
All these were once lovely pink children.

Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks