Nikolay Zabolotsky
The Oriole

In this birch grove of quietness
Faraway from disasters and plights,
Where at dawn there oscillates
The unwinking and rosy light,
Where as if a clear avalanche
Leaves pour down from branches on high,
Sing me, oriole, song of a hermit`s chance,
Song about my life.

Having flown o`er a clearing,
Having viewed people from high above
You chose the inconspicuous,
Homely down-to-earth wooden pipe,
So that at cool daybreak once,
After visiting my human home
You might chastely, at a matin`s hour
Celebrate my new morn.
But in life we are soldiers,
And by now at their breaking mind`s point
There`ve shuddered the nuclei
Wiping off homes with the ruthlees white whirl.
As the windmills of craziness
Wars are flapping their wings all around.
Where`s the oriole, my forest hermitess?
Why d`you grow silent, beloved?

Being encircled with flashing of blasts,
O`er the river where the rushes show black,
You fly over the mountains
You fly over the ruins of death.
Silent pilgrim of quietness,
You accompany me in the war,
And the smoke of the mortal catastrophes
Drift above your head forth.
Past the great rivers far away,
When the Sun rises, in the morn`s haze,
With my eye-lids scorched heavily,
I`ll fall killed hiding face in a trench.
Having croaked as a crazy crow
Machine gun will choke all of a shake.
And that time at my heart of a warrior
Your voice will sing again.

O`er the grove of a hermit`s chance,
O`er the quiet birch grove of mine,
Where as if a rose avalanche
Leaves pour down from branches on high,
Where the oriole flickering,
Raindrops freshen a flower divine,
There breaks solemn day of our victory,
Day that will never die.

Translated by Andrew Alexandre Owie