Nikolay Zabolotsky
The Blind Man

With face upturned to the sky,
Head uncovered,
He lingers by the gates,
This God-accursed old guy.
All day he sings,
And his sad, angry refrain,
Striking at the heart,
Startles pedestrians again.

Around the old man
Younger generations stir.
Blossoming in the gardens,
A mad siren's moan is heard.
In a white grotto of bird-cherries
Along silvery leaves of plants,
A dazzling day
Rises skyward...

Why do you weep, blind man?
Why torment yourself in spring for naught?
The past long ago ceased to leave
Traces of hopeful thought.
Your black abyss you cannot hide
With spring leaves,
Your half-dead eyes,
Alas, will never open wide.

Indeed, your whole life is
Like a large familiar wound,
You're no favorite of the sun,
No kin of nature's womb.
You learned to live
In the depths of eternal mist,
You learned to look
Into the eternal face of darkness...

And I am afraid to ponder,
That somewhere on nature's fringe
I'm that same blind man,
With face turned skyward in a cringe.
I watch the spring floods,
Only in my soul's depths dark,
Conversing with them
Only in my sorrowful heart.

O, how difficult
To observe earth's elements
Wrapped in the mist of habit,
Careless, vain, and evil!
These songs of mine lament —
How many times are they sung in the world!
Where can I find the words,
So my lofty songs of life can be heard?

Where are you leading my hand,
O dark, dreadful Muse,
Along the great roadways
Of my unbounded land?
Never, at any hour
Did I seek union with you,
Never, did I wish
Submission to your power.

You chose me yourself,
And pierced my soul at birth,
You showed me
The great wonder of the earth...
Sing out, old blind man!
Night approaches. And the stars,
Echoing your song,
Shine indifferently from afar.

Translated by Christopher R. Fortune