The Poets, by Vasiliy Shishkov
From room to hallway a candle passes
and is extinguished. Its imprint swims in one’s eyes,
until, among the blue-black branches,
a starless night its contours finds.
It is time, we are going away: still youthful,
with a list of dreams not yet dreamt
with the last, hardly visible radiance of Russia
on the phosphorent rhymes of our last verse.
And yet we did know – didn’t we? – inspiration,
we would live, it seemed, and our books would grow
but the kithless muses at last have destroyed us,
and it iis time now for us to grow.
and this not because we’re afraid of offending
with our freedom good people; simply, it’s time
for us to depart – and besides we prefer not
to see all this world’s enchantment and torment,
the casement that catches a sunbeam afar,
humble somnambulists in soldier’s uniform,
the lofty sky, the attentive clouds,
the beauty, the look of reproach; the young children
playing hide-and-seek inside and around
the latrine that revolves in the summer twilight;
the sunset’s beauty, its look of reproach;
all that weighs upon one, entwines one, wounds one;
an electric sign’s tears on the opposite bank;
through the mist the stream of its emeralds running;
all the things that already I cannot express.
In a moment we’ll pass across the world’s threshold
into a region – name it as you please,
wilderness, death, disavowal of language,
or maybe simpler: the silence of love;
the silence of a distant cartway, its furrow,
beneath the foam of flowers concealed;
my silent country (the love that is hopeless);
the silent sheet lightning, the silent seed.
