Nikolay Zabolotsky
Thistles

They bring a bouquet of thistles
And put it on the table.
Before me, a fire, a turmoil.
The purple dance of flames.
These sharp-pointed stars,
These splashes of northern lights.
Tambourines thunder and moan.
Lanterns burst from inside.
This too is a way of making worlds,
An organism woven of light.
It is the heat of unfinished battles,
Raised swords ablaze.
These are towers of fury and of glory
Where spear leans on spear,
Where bunches of flowers are bloodyheaded
And cut right into my heart.
I dreamed of a high prison
And bars black as night.
Behind them — a fairytale bird,
That one for whom there is no help.
I too, it seems, live badly
For I have not the strength to help.
And the wall of thistles rises
Between me and my joy.
The wedge of the thorn reaches
For my breast. Surely for the last time
The sad and beautiful glance
Of her inextinguishable eyes
Beckons to me.

Translated by Vera Sandomirsky Dunham