Varlam Shalamov
Roncesvalles

I was captivated straight away,
tired of the lies all around me,
by that proud, tragic tale
of a warrior’s death in the mountains.

And it may have been Roland’s horn
that called me, like Charlemagne,
to a silent pass where the boldest
of many bold fighters lay slain.

I saw a sword lying shattered
after long combat with stone —
a witness to forgotten battles
recorded by stone alone.

And those bitter splinters of steel
have dazzled me many a time.
That tale of helpless defeat
can’t help but overwhelm.

I have held that horn to my lips
and tried more than once to blow,
but I cannot call up the power
of that ballad from long ago.

There may be some skill I’m lacking —
or else I’m not bold enough
to blow in my shy anguish
on Roland’s rust-eaten horn. 

Translated by Robert Chandler