Yuri Levitansky
The disturbing digression

I can't force a line. I am finished. Run dry.
Try this way, and that — everything is awry.
The river is freezing, and grey is the sky —
the season of birdlessness, ice and stagnation.
All kinds of boloney, in endless supply,
creep into my thinking and feed my frustration,
for instance:
the questions of greatness, of my
renown,
posthumous fame,
reputation
among influential critics and such
(with biased opinions in their gazettes),
or else — none the better — of money and debts,
(the latter, for sure, depends very much
on former's presumptuous evaluations) —
all these are the thoughts that pile up in my head.
That's it.
Not a word. Not a line. Not a shred
of anything worthwhile. My tongue is worn out.
I’m smothered by tongue-tie. I now forget
the usual words. What a shame.
No doubt,
my mind is the scene of complete devastation.
But then, after sleepless and torturous night,
when I, from the top of the stairs, look down,
a little bit playing with project of diving, —
I suddenly hear some subtle and light
and all but inaudible tentative sound,
a whisper,
a birdie that clears its throat,
a turn of the key,
brooklet’s murmur arriving
from-God-knows-where,
a half-muffled note,
that's tipping the balance and tilting the scales.
And God knows why, but it now entails
debacle, approaching break-up of the ice.
What changed?
Almost nothing. But this tiny voice,
intangible whisper — it now contains
the hundreds of voices still hidden in skies.
It now foretells the return of my cranes.
I see their wingbeats, I hear the call.
What happened? Still nothing important at all,
but — yes, it is breaking, it's breaking, the ice!
Oh, now don't try to keep hold of me, guys!
My God, what was it? What has happened to me?
My Lord, were they really bothering me? —
These questions of greatness,
of fame,
reputation,
of money and enemies,
scarce compensation,
the question of having?
My God, what has happened?
It wasn't for real! Ha! Not on your life!
I now don't care. My cranes will return.
I now don't care. My cranes will arrive.
The air of hunting is filling my sheets.
My powder's dry in my powder-horns.
My mind's now clear, and keen are my wits.
And even the stars play in favor of me,
and all constellations play into my hands,
and clouds above me bring grist to my mill.
In daring thoughts I'm a neighbour to gods —
yea, a neighbour to gods,
I'm talking to skies,
yea, I'm god-like myself,
no barriers ahead...
What's it, what has changed? Almost nothing, as yet.
But — yes, it is breaking, it's breaking, the ice!

Translated by Natasha Gotskaya