Osip Mandelshtam
Tristia

I made myself an expert in farewells
By studying laments, the night-fall of a woman’s hair.
Oxen chew their cud; anticipation lags;
It is the town’s last restless hour;
And I praise that ritual night when the cocks crowed
And eyelids, heavy with the griefs that pass,
Opened to the light, while her weeping flowed
Into the sound of the Muses singing.

Who knows, when the time comes to say goodbye,
What separation we are meant to bear
And what for us cockcrow shall signify
When the acropolis burns like a flare,
And why, at the new daybreak of a life.
When the ox is ruminating in his stall,
The herald cock, prophetic of rebirth.
Should flap his wings on the town wall?

I bless the craft of spinning: the to-and-fro
Action of the shuttle, the way the spindle hums.
Look I barefooted Delia, light as a feather.
Hurries to meet you, flying as she comes.
Oh, how scrawny is the language of joy.
That weak foundation of our mortal lot!
Everything happened before; it will happen again.
Only the flash of recognition brings delight.

Be it so: a small transparent puppet lies,
Like a dried squirrel skin
Extended on a plate.
While a girl crouches, staring, over the image.
Wax is for women what bronze is for men.
We, who cannot prophesy of Erebus,
Only in battle dare confront our fate —
But their gift is to die while telling fortunes.

Translated by Stanley Kunitz