Velimir Khlebnikov
Rue

A Fable

You know the herb they use for doses;
it grows at the edge of filthy places.
This is a tale of ancient princes:
Russia fought the Mongols here
in the lighter days of a younger year.
With a rough sack of sour complaints
the New Year took the old one's place,
with all his horde of helpmates hustling
after joking, jostling, whistling
lewdly into their country pipes
and puffing out their piggy cheeks.
But that same land no longer laughs
since the swan-song sounded overhead,

and the bones, the bones — «Rue,» they madly cry
beneath their shroud of spring-green rye.
And the bones, they wail forevermore:
«We will always remember war.»

Translated by Paul Schmidt