Nikolay Zabolotsky
At Dante’s Tomb

Florence was my stepmother of violence.
So I chose to lie in this tomb at Ravenna.
Passer-by, do not speak of treason,
Let death seal up the city with silence.

Time raised this white monument here
Over which the dove coos, quiet, sweet bird
Who seeks to sing me to rest, but I dream
Only of my country, my faith, my lost fear.

Exile, that broken lute, is immune to travel;
Years and languages away, it dies at home.
Oh, my sadness. Tuscany, your kiss of memory is
A web of flesh that death cannot unravel.

Frightened, the dove darts from the tomb's roof
As the shadow of a winged machine,
High and deadly, draws strange lines
Over the city, white lines of war, evil, aloof.

O bell-ringer, your heavy bell will not cease
Ringing that the world still foams with blood!
I chose Ravenna’s sanctuary for my death.
But even Ravenna brings no peace.

Translated by James Schevill