Leonid Martynov
Something new...

Something new —
Mankind thirsts for song.
Hurry up!
Bring lutes! Bring lyres!
Of a world without song
We have tired.

Damp and windy spring,
Trees in wild flight,
Last year’s grasses like time-blackened scrolls...
Body and soul,
Men thirst for song —
And they’re right.

Oh, to find
That proverbial lyre,
Or whatever it’s called
(I don’t quite recall)
That responds to the fingers of genius
With a quiver ecstatic and sensuous.

Cities, deserts, the roll of the tide...
Men long
For song.
Here they are, these strings —
They ring
Like bells made of copper or iron...
Their plea is inspired.
It is, in fact,
The most touching of pleas:
“Come, poet,
touch us, please!”
About to do so, I suddenly hear,
Coming near
From a distance,
An insistent
And curious hum-voices, voices, voices—
Of slaves freed, no more in chains,
Of lepers cured, no more in pain,
Of the slain, the innocent slain,
Resurrected and shouting, helpless with wonder:
“Look! It’s us! We’re alive again!”

New leaves on the trees are born,
New brushes are born of bristle,
Fresh sheets of canvas unroll
With an eager rustle.
Mould is washed away,
Welcome, art!
Man waits for song with thirsting heart.

Translated by Irina Zheleznova