Osip Mandelshtam
The Lutheran

And I, out walking, chanced upon a funeral
Cortège, on Sunday, close to Lutheran village.
I watched bewildered as it passed, and soon full
Aware became of mourners’ hearted pillage.

An alien tongue uncomprehended; only
A harness thinly shone in cold sun’s glimmer,
And, bridge-reflected hollow solemn lonely
Clip-clopping made the winding road the grimmer.

And in the darkness-stretching carriage rumbling
There huddled, face-hid, Janus-saddened false one –
Ignoring, wordless, tearless, mourners’ mumbling –
With autumn-roses twining in her button.

Among the foreign band the blackly flapping
Be-ribboned weeping ladies carriage followed –
With ruddy eyes behind their veils. And, strapping,
The horseman urged his team with brow be-furrowed.

I did not know you, Lutheran now departed –
Without a fuss you’re buried now so simply.
A decent teary glance the mourners granted;
Restrained, the bells your dismal loss told deeply.

And pondered I the fraud foretelling seers –
We are not prophets, nor the wild John’s mutter.
We love not Eden, but we’re not hell-fearers.
As noon-lit candles, dimly on we gutter.

Translated by Rupert Moreton