The Swamp

The life of poverty – without storms and senses,
The raw half-a-dusk, lost any noise or bright: 
Nor cries of pain, nor bitter songs or verses,
Nor dark of night, nor gray daylight.

The mists, the dusk… Among the dusky glances,
All colors, features, figures – lie in mess,
And in the kingdom of the deadly silence
Just poison flowers have breath.

And the black toads – devils of the mire,
Sometimes rise out of the sleeping bog,
And being thrilled with foul ooze, entire,
Keep evil dance and song.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October 3, 2001