Nikolay Tikhonov
Cannon

To Arnold Peck

The slant-eyes of the horses are like prunes,
Squashed flat and glistening wet in straining heads,
And to the slipping wheel the nettles cling
In rank festoons, their ragged leaves half-dead.

The very hill itself in terror quakes,
A dwarf that hears the Cyclopes’ muttering,
And soon the cloudy muslin will run out
That binds the wounds the ground is suffering.

A Cyclope managed by a boy the size of a canary...
As merry as a burning bush, this fellow,
He caught up by the tail a small and wary
Snake and then watched it writhe. The Cyclope bellows

With laughter. They get on so well together
That when the Cyclope’s murderous roars abate
He sets the little lad upon his shoulder —
And in his eye bums low the spark of hate.

Hie sweating horses draw the idle pair
In double yoke where sky and steep band meet...
The little lad rolls him a cigarette,
Bent as the winding path before their feet.

Translated by Avril Pyman