Bar News - October 5, 2007
By: Anna Barkova
Translated by Elizabeth Ransome Stine
Today is another’s rejoicing,
A cross on my soul I do bear.
O, for a cell, a monk’s refuge
In the depths of a forest a lair!
The strings have grown hoarse, consumptive
On the battered decayed violin…
Here no one is young or maturing,
All grow older, together with me.
Not the years age us here
But the wind and the blizzards and clouds.
And the colourless word “misfortune,”
The word “anguish,” murky and dull.
Here the spring and frosts do the aging,
And the rules of a life that is death,
The blunt threats that surround us,
The orders to “March!” or to “Halt!”
The strings have grow hoarse, comsumptive
On the battered, decayed violin.
Here those who seem young in body
In soul wither weakly away.
Reprinted with permission of the St. Petersburg Review.