Marina Galina
What, in July's honey heat, do you weep for, poor goy
What, in July’s honey heat, do you weep for, poor goy,
unshaven, naked, what are the snares you flee?
Saturated in lime-tree scent, the boulevard recedes,
and to the acacias clings the hot groin of a cloud,
spray flickers, glimmering on the town clock,
the horny heat of turtledoves seethes in the heavens,
and a sail rummages, listing in a sunny négligé,
while you sit, like some prince, robed in golden mange.
I don’t know what I’m weeping for, but I know at whom.
It’s the lord, his beggar’s bowl, and the entire town,
myself, poor goy, mischigener ascetic, I sorrow
that there’s no other life, and this is no life either.
I loathe the morning and the glorious light –
no longer is it for me, or I for it,
and the burning wind flees the darkness of the steppes.
Take pity, Lord! What you’re doing to me? Tell!
From the heavens seeping like resin, flows a pitchy dark,
and my youth has passed, and my life, too, has passed.
The pollen from the poplars has tumbled down, the evening light
dies,
and towards night three hags are paraded by the lord of the
flies.
Bags of bones, they file past, uncouth –
the one bringing up the rear my love . . .
unshaven, naked, what are the snares you flee?
Saturated in lime-tree scent, the boulevard recedes,
and to the acacias clings the hot groin of a cloud,
spray flickers, glimmering on the town clock,
the horny heat of turtledoves seethes in the heavens,
and a sail rummages, listing in a sunny négligé,
while you sit, like some prince, robed in golden mange.
I don’t know what I’m weeping for, but I know at whom.
It’s the lord, his beggar’s bowl, and the entire town,
myself, poor goy, mischigener ascetic, I sorrow
that there’s no other life, and this is no life either.
I loathe the morning and the glorious light –
no longer is it for me, or I for it,
and the burning wind flees the darkness of the steppes.
Take pity, Lord! What you’re doing to me? Tell!
From the heavens seeping like resin, flows a pitchy dark,
and my youth has passed, and my life, too, has passed.
The pollen from the poplars has tumbled down, the evening light
dies,
and towards night three hags are paraded by the lord of the
flies.
Bags of bones, they file past, uncouth –
the one bringing up the rear my love . . .
Translated by Daniel Weissbort
Page(s) 61-62
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