Varlam Shalamov
I raise my glass to a road in the forest...

I raise my glass to a road in the forest
To those who fall on their way
To those who can't drag themselves farther
But are forced to drag on.

To their bluish hard lips
To their identical faces
To their torn, frost-covered coats
To their hands without gloves

To the water they sip, from an old tin can
To the scurvy which sticks to their teeth.
To the teeth of fattened gray dogs
Which awake them in the morning

To the sullen sun,
Which regards them without interest
To the snow-white tombstones,
The work of clever snowstorms

To the ration of raw, sticky bread
Swallowed quickly
To the pale, too high sky
To the Ayan-Yuryakh River!

Translated by Anne Applebaum and Galya Vinogradova