Mikhail Svetlov
The Italian

On the chest of an Italian rests a black cross,
No carving, no pattern, no shiny gloss,
A poor family’s modest heirloom,
Once proudly worn by their only son…

Young man, young Neapolitan!
What did you leave on the Russian plain?
Why could you not stay there to be happy,
Safe and sound in your Gulf of Naples sea?

I am the one who killed you near Mozdok,
Who often dreamt of your Vesuvius rock!
How I yearned on the Volga to be free
And just once take a gondola out to sea!

But I did not come there with a gun,
To take away your life and summer sun.
My bullets were not fired to whistle by
In your own sacred land, in Raphael’s sky!

I shot and killed you here where I was born,
Where I was proud to fight like those before,
Who died for us that we might share their pride
Defending lives whose tales remain denied.

The winding, twisting river Don flows
In ways a foreign scientist never knows.
Did you ever plough or sow our land
Our Russia — Our very own Russland?

No! You came in trucks and tanks to seize
And destroy all these distant colonies.
So your family’s modest cross and heirloom
Would grow to the size of a soldier’s tomb…

I warn you now so it is not mistaken
I will not let my dear homeland be taken!
Each shot I take has no justice higher
Than the justness of each bullet I fire!

You never lived here, never came in peace.
But scattered in our blackened snowy fields
Glazed in the frozen gaze of foreign eyes
Still now reflect Italian sea and skies…

____

Literal translation

The Italian

A black cross on the chest of an Italian,
No carving, no gloss, no pattern,
A poor family’s heirloom
Worn by their only son...

Young Neapolitan man!
What did you leave on the Russian plain?
Why couldn't you be happy
On your famous native bay?

I, who killed you near Mozdok,
So dreamt of your Vesuvius rock!
How I yearned to be free on the Volga,
Just once to go to sea on a gondola!

But I didn't come there with a pistol
To take away your Italian summer
And my bullets did not hum and whistle
In your sacred land of Raphael!

Here I shot! Here, where I was born,
Where friends and I am proud of being,
Where epic tales about our nation
Don’t quite sound right, when in translation.

Have foreign scientists ever gone
To study the twists and turns of the river Don?
Did you ever plough and sow our land,
Here in Russia, our own Russland?

No! You were brought here by troop-train
To seize these distant colonies,
For your family’s crucifix to grow
To the size of a tomb’s headstone…

I will not let my land be taken
For a foreign power’s expansion!
I shoot and there is no justice
More just than my bullets!

You never lived here — never did!..
But scattered in snowy fields
Italian blue skies
Are glazed in dead eyes...

Translated by Sam Novnik

Михаил Светлов
Итальянец

Черный крест на груди итальянца,
Ни резьбы, ни узора, ни глянца, —
Небогатым семейством хранимый
И единственным сыном носимый...

Молодой уроженец Неаполя!
Что оставил в России ты на поле?
Почему ты не мог быть счастливым
Над родным знаменитым заливом?

Я, убивший тебя под Моздоком,
Так мечтал о вулкане далеком!
Как я грезил на волжском приволье
Хоть разок прокатиться в гондоле!

Но ведь я не пришел с пистолетом
Отнимать итальянское лето,
Но ведь пули мои не свистели
Над священной землей Рафаэля!

Здесь я выстрелил! Здесь, где родился,
Где собой и друзьями гордился,
Где былины о наших народах
Никогда не звучат в переводах.

Разве среднего Дона излучина
Иностранным ученым изучена?
Нашу землю - Россию, Расею -
Разве ты распахал и засеял?

Нет! Тебя привезли в эшелоне
Для захвата далеких колоний,
Чтобы крест из ларца из фамильного
Вырастал до размеров могильного...

Я не дам свою родину вывезти
За простор чужеземных морей!
Я стреляю — и нет справедливости
Справедливее пули моей!

Никогда ты здесь не жил и не был!..
Но разбросано в снежных полях
Итальянское синее небо,
Застекленное в мертвых глазах...

Стихотворение Михаила Светлова «Итальянец» на английском.
(Mikhail Svetlov in english).