Yenisei in Krasnoyarsk Vasily Ivanovich Surikov (1848-1916)

RUSSIA
(A poetic oratorio)

* * *
We are threatened again by the Tatars –
But they will hardly frighten us with their autumn yoke.
The grass has turned slightly brown
And will trust the salty, frosty needles.

Youre seeing familiar landscapes for days now –
And images of summer live in your memory.
But autumn is preferable – this
Glassy, elevated stillness.

How brightly the jewels shine!
A numismatists collection, wine spilled.
The earth is riddled with burrows,
And birds fly in a gray haze.

For what does the fiery ball punish?
We drink an infusion of rowan berries.
But the streets are transparent and empty,
Yet the bush is about to explode – just touch it.

Autumn rain – almost a blessing,
Dont dare to complain about this moisture.
But look, the evening is actually a trick –
The sum of old roofs will be the trophy.

Forget about past times…
Gladiolus fires in the apartment!
The clocks have stopped. But in those clocks
There is no truth about – how familiar? – the world.
Yes, there are many things we wont know,
And many things we wont understand.
When you count gloomy numbers,
You want to run away from reality.

We trample on wonderful foliage in vain –
They will burn it in bonfires at a transparent morning.
I imagine the city too fragile,
I want to break away... maybe to Lithuania.

Its unlikely youre going to escape to Lithuania:
Pretend to be an impostor, or buy a visa.
You dont know how to win.
Trust the old cornice instead,
Where pigeons, like notes, if your gaze
Can extract music from lines.
But if your handwriting has changed sharply –
There is probably a whole hell hidden in your soul.

However, we are one with the foliage,
And the needle will hardly frighten us.
And the wind rushes like a Tatar horde,
And its allowed to collect gold.

We are not threatened by arrows, and there is no death.
The river flows, and the street is calm.
Years and wars go nowhere,
And only light remains eternal.

* * *
They are selling bagels everywhere... The food
At the fair is quite diverse.
A bear is amusingly tumbling,
And the cries of vendors are full of temptation.
Did the Firebird drop a feather?
Is your passion still unquenched?
Reality unfolds in bright colors.
And theres a place for lovers by the river.

The barge is rusting. The boat is sailing.
And the steamship is playing with its rudders.
Someone is waiting for a cozy town –
Someone who recently bought a factory.
Familiar, dense clutter of fences
And wooden houses.
And the bright shine of a tall cross,
And the hustle and bustle of sinful days.

Do not expect a letter.
The church smells of incense and wax.
Reality is quite abundant,
A swamp from a teenagers point of view.
In a ditch, a multitude of roofs will strike you –
Its visible even without bird flight.
In winter, you hear the silence of berries.
And Saturday slowly ends.

By evening, you really want to walk
Through the winding, old streets.
The cathedral commands you – stop,
You must sincerely and passionately pray.
Various pictures... Bargemen,
And the Volga, and ancient merchants,
Whose plans are extremely grand.
Faces and masks meet each other.

Postcards from unknown cities,
Quite monotonous, that is, boring.
And the voice of an Asian is harsh,
Its far from a pleasant sound.
In the tavern, the music machine
Plays Goodbye, my dear Augustine.
The clerk drinks. Students talk.
But nothing happens in general.

A manor house. And an evening samovar.
The forest darkens like a massive wall.
And the old man is very old. But whats old
Doesnt make him want to go to bed early.
Cousin and cousin. A banal sequence
Of events. Piano on the veranda.

Sounds fly into the evening air.
The one who plays doesnt need talent.

Carriage drivers are diligent in cities.
Lights burn in a luxurious restaurant.
Alas, it is impossible to convey in two words
How delicately rowan berries smell in sour cream.
There are many details. Its a pity that the overall harmony
Is violated, and something else is uninteresting.
You cant catch the tail, and you cant go back,
And we wont hear old songs again.

Pies on honey tasted good.
Im full, and theres plenty of sunlight.
I cant imagine a cruel disaster
In a clear plot.
Listen, friend, a bell is ringing – it floats,
It sways, changing something in the air.
From the sum of circumstantial worries,
You need a reasonable rest.

No unimaginable ideas!
The thoughts of townspeople are about
Pies and all
Reality with blooming geraniums.
The warm life hasnt been corrupted yet,
Which will later be terribly slandered.
The absence of events or battles
Testifies that everything is fine.

According to ancient rules of life,
Lets trust the domestic order, friend.
For the black emptiness of nothingness
There are enough claims to heroism.
Alas, not the fruits of philosophy,
But Asia triumphs everywhere.
And here are the reins of power
In the hands of someone who is constantly bluffing.

He is a leader. He is a person? More like a mollusk.
Absurdity will exist without an emblem.
Im a little afraid of the future –
Because the problems will remain the same.
Is it scary to find yourself in emptiness?
And a flock of demons are joyfully raging.
We are moving towards an unknown boundary,
And we see vanished faces again.

Dead priests stand,
Merchants and patrons, and heroes.
Above the cemetery, there is a ravens hell.
They desecrate royal chambers with darkness.
And soot, and a pungent stench floats.
The Asian horror frightens the soul.
And it is impossible to restore the order of being.
Oh, who are we? Let me understand, let me figure it out...

* * *
A distant forest – like an injured bird,
Spreading two large wings.
The river flows, and the gray water
Is just as it was,
When enemy faces turned yellow.

Its still a decent amount of time until autumn.
Mystical mystery of flow!
You wont be alone by the water,
Anything will help you.
Here is a fishing weir set up by a fisherman.

And the bank is steep. And swallow nests
Look around intently –
Or is Argus guarding this air?
And a quiet meadow turns green gently.
And an old landscape inspires the mind.

* * *
Tents and cars. Fishermen
Are preparing dinner. It smells of porridge.
The silhouettes of fishing rods are close
To a sentimental soul – that is, to us.
A lazy movement of a hand...

He throws a spinning rod,
Dreaming of a bream, but maybe a sturgeon.
A terrible century has recently ended –
Now, I hope, everything will be fine.
We have lived through another Thursday.

In general, it doesnt matter: Friday, Wednesday.
But summer is enchanting, even as it burns out.
A bonfire, you see, is closer than a star –
Unknown, distant, colorful.
And everything else, besides happiness, is nonsense.

A hastily set table: mushrooms and bread,
A little sausage and plenty of vodka.
The surrounding world is cunning and ridiculous,
Thats why hearts and throats burn.
... perhaps the eye of eternity is blind.

And here is darkness. And a black river
How misleadingly calm?
It flows to you from afar,
And somewhere it ends.
But in life, there is no guiding light.

Here is a song that has begun, but
It will subside and dissolve into space.
Reality, my friend, is doomed.
And its given to enjoy –
A great reward.

And of course, its not about slander...
It seems – this forest is huge
Not wings, but frowning eyebrows.
And white light has disappeared in the night silence.
But we dont contradict wise silence.

* * *
Forests, and waters, and crafts,
Almost indestructible fleet.
They achieved their goal – drying oars!
The country is a stronghold of power.
Here heresies boiled fiercely,
Changing little amazing land.
You must be baptized in the font.
A baby sleeps in a cradle.
This is Byzantium. Or paradise.
God raises, as if holding
A goblet filled with wine
For the imperial land – we dont know of anything better.
Dont hurt your soul with doubts!
Temptations oppress souls.
With what are the ambassadors returning?
And what legacy is there for this land,
Whose temples are brighter than bonfires?
The decoration of temples is like autumn.
Well, and art by masters
Is superior to the strongest words –
Words we carry uselessly in our hearts.
Away with doubts, human!

They raise a shield, without arguing.
From here, conditions were accepted,
Which seemed – forever. For centuries
Defining order
For future life.
But evil is still there,
And turmoil comes from it in this land.

* * *
In the night window, an autumn moon
Floats like an unexplored fish.
And the night is more powerful than any weight,
Or maybe its a boundless depth.
And a chandelier reflects in the window,
A familiar golden constellation.
Forgotten papers on the table
Are hardly a treasure for the soul.
Derzhavins river flows –
Washing away constellations and dates,
Invisible and extremely deep –
And what do novels and palaces mean to it?
Look, how the moon floats by the window,
And the chandelier in the room plays
A familiar golden light.
Outside the window, a poplar nods its head.
And sounds leave an old house.
And in the silence, the surrounding space fades away.

* * *
... countless cities – like caviar,
If from an airplane. Life is a game
I dont quite understand. Cities
Surround cathedrals – a secret realm,
Where prayers soar. The train rushes by,
And space flies like a ribbon.
Many-legged forests rush by.
Different voices of the homeland.
What, poet, what will you read to us today?
What, madman, will you tell heaven?
The train is rushing. And pigeons are flying.
There is no way back.

* * *
Lights of faith – hermitages, caves.
People-monks – lights of faith.
What symbol has banditry become in vast expanses?
Here is Emelya on the stove, as before.
Here is a madman in torn clothes.
Arcs frighten sometimes
For us inhabitants of ancient Russia,
For us, bearded and fervently drinking,
Sometimes not giving to the poor,
Praying zealously in church,
So that later we live sinfully.
For us – energetic, merchant-like,
Gathering mushrooms in forests.
Connected – not by blood, but by faith –
That we will live in an unearthly atmosphere,
Having learned the earthly one, and dissolving in a dream.

Quite conventional, however, connection.

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