Leonid Martynov
Lord of nature

Suddenly I remembered:
I’m a king!
For years I hadn’t thought of it,
But every schoolbook taught of it;
That man is lord of nature.

Unspeaking, well wrapped up, I went
Outside, and listened.
The night was still. No hymns of praise.
But then I looked and saw the stars
Take sudden fire, as if to light
My way; benevolently repeat:
“You are the lord of nature —
You are, indeed!”
Well, then —
Unhurriedly, as if I were
Nobody in particular,
No emperor, nor even prince,
I walked in silence down the street.
How could I speedily convince
Myself that my exalted lot
Was true — or lamentably not?
And then, as lamps and headlights glowed,
I noticed an imperial crowd
Of monarchs, princes, princesses,
Royal though uncrowned, like I myself.

At that late hour, the king of air
Unmindful of our low affairs
Was soaring through the clouds. The lord
of cash was checking his accounts.
The lord of skis roamed snowy paths.
The star-king over telescope,
The germ-king over microscope
With wisely narrowed eyes were bent.
I watched. From far away I saw
A tramp imperial, grand duke
Of all drunks on determined benders —
In a low bar he lay face down
Also an emperor, no pretender.
And then I saw, on foot, a man
Clad twice as gaily as the rest
And with a crown. The barber’s best
Skills had curled and crimped him one
Of six months’ growth, as fashion orders.
“Hey, you! are you a lord of nature?
Come on, reply!
For your sake were created wonders
Of art and science; the heavens submit;
To your hands atoms were entrusted.
Are you emperor or no,
Or a creature of a different breed?
Or else perhaps the schoolbooks lied
And most men only, but not all
Arc born the natural world to rule?
Hey, you lord of nature, say,
Tell me, arc you of royal line
And do you dare assert your throne!”
Afraid, perhaps, because my fists
Were clenched, that I might knock him down
He Bed, unworthy of his crown:
Squeaked like a mouse and ran away.

O emperor! O emperors!
Quickly, I beg, unstop your ears!
To you, beloved brother, I say:
Awakened by the early thaw
Tomorrow even you will hear
Out of the dark, from snowy roofs
Of high buildings, the silver horn
Of spring itself — the tribute, tax,
Whatever you may call it, that
You too will take from nature. Stand:
The earth is yours.
Poplars of your own family tree
With all their twigs your mercy pray.
Hear the homage of the streams,
Accept as envoys nightingales
And, monarch of your freedom, go
Through backyards to receive the gifts
Of loyal tribute brought to you
By nature, faithful citizen —
To you, her lawful sovereign!

Translated by J. R. Rowland