Nikolay Klyuev
The autumns of the earth are like a bishop’s grave...

The autumns of the earth are like a bishop’s grave
Where incense and brocade — half-rotten, mix and set in
With the cadaver’s mold. The aspen backwoods wave,
Browner than any brick. Like some crypt thieves can get in,
The sky is yawning wide. There — lees, the trash of cold
Graves, and the twangy talk, the sexton wind’s endeavor:
‘The omophorion and censer of pure gold
Are stolen; the most sacred grave profaned forever:
A miter — lump of dirt, the eagle-rug rags curled.’
The autumns of the earth are sad unendingly...
They are the living pledge the rich crypt of the world
Is stolen piece by piece — and without lock and key
Will be only received by the sacristan death.
Oh Lord, you pacify — with fire and wounds of war —
The spirit of the thief, the fats our bodies store;
But you soften the scabs with balms of Spring’s fresh breath
And scare us with the fall — as with some dread landmark
At crossroads of the worlds where the graves’ dusk is dark.

Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks