Nikolay Zabolotsky
In this birch grove...

In this birch grove,
Far removed from trouble and pain,
Where the pink, unwavering light
Of morning pulsates in the heavens,
Where a limpid avalanche
Of leaves pours from on high,
Oriole, sing me a desolate song,
The song of my life.

Flying above the glade,
Spying people from high up,
You have chosen
An imperceptible wooden flute,
In the freshness of morning
To visit this human house,
And with your chaste, plain matins
To greet my day.

But are we not life's soldiers. —
And already, on the mind's edge,
The atoms are quaking,
In a white whirlwind houses are flung.
Like crazy windmills
Wars whirl their sails around,
Where are you, oriole, recluse of the forest?
Why are you silent, my friend?

With shells bursting all around,
Over the river, the darkening rushes,
You fly; over ravines,
Over death's ruins you fly.
Silent wanderer,
You accompany me into battle,
And the poisonous cloud drifts
Over your head.

Beyond the great rivers
The sun will rise, and in the dark
Of morning, with scorched eyelids,
I shall fall, a dead man, to the ground;
Screaming like a demented raven,
The machine-gun will shudder and fall silent,
And then in my torn heart
Your voice will sound.

And over the birch grove,
Over this birch grove of mine,
Where a pink avalanche
Of leaves pours from on high,
Where the fragment of a flower grows chill
Under the god-given shower,
Victory will dawn in all its solemnity
For the whole of time.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort