Nikolay Tikhonov
Before the Aragva at Night

The hour was late, was lost
in the loud night.
The kolkhoz lantern tossed
its yellowing light

over the stones, the stream
danced quick with gold,
and by that lantern beam
a tale was told,

as if, where spindrift rays
of water clashed,
the wild scenes of my days
flickered and flashed

and drowned, at once, spinning
in chilly race,
a story of steel flung in
my numbing face.

I could not turn, those lines
raved madly past
and rose and froze untwining,
twining fast.

Hoarse in my ears they whirred,
a voice was blown:
«Think now of what you were
and what you've grown.

«Once on my surges, gay,
you leaned and stared
when all the gold of day
and youth you shared.

«Now we're alone and hush
it's midnight, listen.
See silver-haired they rush
my waves and glisten.»

The torrent swirled to drown
in foam the boulders,
a glory of bubbles, down
their streaming shoulders.

But I'm no stone that's drowned
at the wave's will,
and no stone I'll be found,
heaven hear me, still.

The light laid open all
the scalpel'd scene,
the scattering drops, the squall
of furious green.

The lantern strewed about
its spilth of sparks
like dawn that hustles out
the heavy dark

and in the fire of the wave
each lode was rifted
as though from the depths it heaved
glowed and lifted

to pierce the night, pursue
the unresting night.
Aragva, once I too
was leap of light.

Translated by Jack Lindsay