"The Lark" (my poetic translation)

By Gregory Margovsky

The English Poetic Translation by Anna Polibina-Polansky

The Lark * * *

It doesn't matter so to whom

the recognition will be granted.

I will accept the chalice, doomed.

Half-deities spread to me, their hands bleak.

The prophet is condemned to crowds

that venerate their ghosts and statues.

Two ivy-trees, so, weave about.

The landscape is all that still matters.

So larks will fly about, beyond

the purple meadows unending.

Oh hues of dawns, the brisky ponds,

the ovens - dazzling colors tender.

The unions are of tribes and tribes,

and rhymes of anthems roll about.

The lines dictate the strangers' rhymes.

The truth of words does come aloud. Tr. 2020.