Nikolay Tikhonov
A woman standing in the doorway...

A woman standing in the doorway;
In sunset — head to feet.
Winding black yarn on her black shuttle.
She watched the sun retreat.

Her hand, in shadow at her temple.
Would Hash and lie down then;
That mountaineer's quick hand was winding
My life like yarn again.

An ox, munching on grass, was going
To this house from below;
And underneath the jet black shuttle,
I saw his red horns show*.

The last coals of the sun were trembling;
Dying, they seemed forlorn.
And all of the neighboring village
Lay in between the horns.

And up the slope - dove-blue mist, crawling.
Licked houses’ sides, roofs, rocks...
There was no better frame made for it
Than curved horns of that ox.

But ice-sharp winds will start their blowing.
The shuttle end its strain.
The last gesture will flash and darken
The tuft of the last skein...

Here is the triumph that unvanquished,
Simple heights forge.
And what are poems? Thin smoke, carried
Into a gorge.

Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks