Nina Berberova
To Shakespeare

Oh, genius of Stratford, return!
Return to your foggy Avon
Where men still are men of grandeur.
Of wisdom — severe and gray.
Return, unexpected as before.
Stride into the world in Brabantine lace,
In an old camisole and high boots
That have been patched on every stage.
You were the beloved of kings.
The fool and god of lordly savages.
Three witches whisper, whisper, spin;
Borne by you, they would bring you back
At this terrible hour
When Birnam Wood moves on Dunsinane,
When the swamps of Polessia quiver.
When a rainbow hangs over the Volga.
And somewhere between the Ilmen and the Don
An emperor peers into the eyes of fate.

Millions, legions-strong, they fell.
Mingling with tartar bones,
Lithuanian bones. French bones —
On a field once known as Kulikovo,
On the broad plain of Poltava,
Over the Neva, where the first emperor
Had flashed his eyes at Europe.
They have fallen and will not rise again.
They sleep sweetly in Polovtsy arms.
Embraced by Gedimin's regiments, Napoleon's guard.
And soon, soon the Russian grain
Will rustle over them...
                                    But he who has shaken the age
Cannot end his days without you.
Oh. genius of Stratford, descend upon him.
Lead him into thy throng of horrid fates.
Teach him ... his last calling!
Three witches whisper, whisper, spin
Their thread is thin, their whisper garbled.
The Forest of Kursk heaves above a tyrant,
Bending oaks while a thread runs on.
There is no sleep in an Empire palace
Built under Alexander.
Here in medals and mustaches a barbarian lived;
Here in 18 was a place of torture.
Here in '31 they built a hospital.
Here the parquet grows green with moss
And portraits of beauties with Asian eyes
Stare from damask walls.
The forest heaves.
                              And now he ventures forth
To listen to the Russian storm.
What is the will, what portends the whisper
Of these old women? Will he wield the knife?
Or will another? Whisked into exile?
Or hauled animal-like in a cage
To degenerate Paris? A thread runs from darkness
Into darkness, and we do not understand
The twentieth century.
The wind of tragedy shakes no heart.
And poetry — like a dead eagle —
Lies in the dust. Music is silent.
Love does not burn and thought shrivels away.
Only blood still Hows. There is
Blood. We are all in blood,
Water in blood, land in blood, air
In blood. He who has not eaten dead flesh
Throughout his life — as we —
He too stands chest-deep in blood.
Oh. genius of Stratford, powerful spirit!
You loved blood. Help us
To end this path of gore!

Translated by John Glad