Nikolay Zabolotsky
The sea

Old times, like mountains, rose. And war
rose too. Behind it and before
boulders flew, screeching; each one bore
an aura sprouting from its core.
The sea grew black into a steamboat,
and on the trail lit by the moon
the waves clacked like a silver spoon
on a silver spoon. They twinkled, strewn
about the boat, merrily romped,
a tangled herd of blind cats. From
their mouths, from their black mouths passed
a steaming stream of liquid glass,
it gushed, went up in splashes, swelled,
it swayed and bubbled up, then gave
to a contrarian rising wave;
in a wild waltz the seastorm whirled
and unto the steamboat it yelled
“I gotcha! Gotcha!” — or — “Okay,
Pull out your cargo from the bay!”

And out of cowardice or idleness,
the searchlight bore down on the sea;
the dazzled waves stood like old idols
hewn out of stone. Gradually
the wind grew wearier and kinder
to ensigns fluttering like paper,
half-torn. The storm calmed, and the moon
came out at long last, slid its shimmer
over the decks, and by the funnels
in search of warmth wet glimmer spread.
A ruddy flush, green from the rudder,
streamed on the waves in twisted strips
with a tight movement on its lips...

Translated by Dmitry Manin