Out of Vyacheslav IvAnov

By Vyacheslav Ivanov

The English Poetic Translation, by Anna Polibina-Polansky

* * *

("Evropa. Utra hmuriy holod...")

Oh, Europe! It's cold is gloomy.

It walks and frowns darkened brows.

By Cyclopes, so, the Hammer's loosened

And Gothic churches fly in rows.

Oh Russia, widening are rails;

Along the snow, drawn are knots.

Along a path, the chains yet whail,

Along the path of roaming lots.

Oh sod, the oceans' foam is grey,

The bones of mounts are brightly lurking.

Oh wounds of cities, folks astray!

They crawl to outskirts, at plane circles.

Tr. 2020