Osip Mandelshtam
I sing when throat is moist, and soul is dry and cold...

I sing when throat is moist, and soul is dry and cold,
And when my eye is damp, and mind does not dissemble:
How healthy is the wine? And will the wineskins hold?
And what about Colchian’s bloody coursing tremble?
Demure’s my breast, it has no words – it is not bold:
My song has ceased already – lips but breaths assemble,
My ear is scabbard-sheathed, my head is deaf and old.

It is a selfless song – itself its merit’s stitch:
To friends it is a joy, to foes it is but pitch.

It is a one-eyed song, and from the moss it grows,
A one-voiced gift that stems from hunter’s occupation,
This song is sung aloft by horseman as he goes,
Who freely makes with in- and exhalation,
Who canters onwards now in truth and jubilation
To bear the young to wedding feast, released from woes.

Translated by Rupert Moreton