Ivan Bunin
My Dear Lord God

Endless rain, and forest fog,
With tossing heads perplexed fir trees;
The woods seem drunk; my dear Lord God,
This soaked-wet world is ill at ease.

By windowsill in watchman’s shack
A child sits and taps a spoon.
His mother sleeps on stove soot-black,
A calf nearby bleats out of tune.

In gloomy shack the buzz of flies...
Outside the bunting trills her notes,
And mushrooms grow, I don’t know why,
And flowers bloom, and green grass gloats.

Why does he pound to the din of the rain?
Because life’s a malaise, with uneasiness strewn;
That boy with the large head, rain on his brain,
Taps on the windowsill, beats with his spoon.

Like some deaf-mute the calf grunts on,
The writhing firs, grief-stricken, awed,
Their needles green, bent, woebegone,
Oh dear, my God, my dear Lord God! 

Translated by U. R. Bowie