Velimir Khlebnikov
A quiet perfume from the orchard...

A quiet perfume from the orchard,
apple blossoms and acacia.
The boyarina is fasting
and afraid that she might fall.
Dead men float.
Last night. It was glorious, ecstatic.
Dead men pull the oars.
Cold glances above a white veil
burn and sparkle,
and sepulchral shadows hush
the sweet salt savor of a kiss.
As soon as midnight waters
lap the descending steps,
the vision slips away.
They whisper simply, «Allah bismullah...»
they slip their skulls beneath the surface
and vanish in the murmur of the waves.
White snow and tenderness descending
everywhere, like the hand of Yaroslavna
on the painted Pecheneg.

Translated by Paul Schmidt