Velimir Khlebnikov
Beast + Number

When the blue shimmer of the damsel-fly
shines through the smoke of villages,
A Thing appears, some new conception,
and shipwrecks intellect on Number's shore.

«Children, children!» the priest exclaimed,
when he heard the Athenian envoy speak.
About the austere neck of Number
mind and matter hang like a cloak.

When mortal minds tire pondering
some equation — wine-dark, foam-born —
their goal, remember, is to tower
until they touch the sky.

Replace the stake, the block, the cross!
Think of Number as an iron device.
Even the whirlwind slackens,
confronting Number face to face.

I write these lines in ink: Believe me,
the day is near that glorifies us all!
And the rough beast slouches in silence,
a pair of virgin ciphers in his paw!

But when he hears the tender tumult
of these voices and these days,
he will fall down as if struck
upon the rocks, upon the rocks.

Translated by Paul Schmidt