Яна Кане - Зимородок

Failing to see that on the tree of knowledge

Ripened the comforts he’s enjoying now.

Said a termite to a termite:

“Yes, I really was determined

To be disciplined and try it —

This new alphabetic diet.

I ate airplanes, chewed up boats,

Candy canes and cashmere coats,

Munched on desks and dinner tables,

Easels, feather dusters, gables,

Gnawed a harness (right off the horse),

Fed on houses (of course!).

I ate inkwells, jellybeans,

Kettle drums and limousines.

Then I snacked on magazines,

Napkins, oil cans,

Pencils, quilts,

Rubber boots, a pair of stilts,

Tablecloths and tambourines,

Undershirts, vanilla beans,

Waffles, xylophones, a yurt,

And a zipper for dessert.

Yet I didn’t feel satisfied.”

“Yes,” the other termite sighed,

“All these diets are too tricky.

I just eat and don’t get picky.”

Grant us faith in ourselves, Creator.

May we find the courage and skill

To become ourselves in full measure.

For if we do not, who will?

«Let the dead ones attend to burying their dead», —

A buddy told me, and I just smiled in reply.

And, with that smile, I said to myself: «Why not?

Let them bury themselves, it is worth a try».

A noose, a cudgel, the firefly flash of a blade —

And the eternal peace, the corrupting peace…

But how well, my friend, you pretend that you are alive,

With a longing that is so endless, so full of grace.

Freedom from all desires, from passions and regrets;

From saccharine Christmas pills, from serving and from service,

From trysts and from farewells recurring like a dream,

From sympathy to god, from joys amidst the rushing.

From soil and seed and root, from rudder and from oars,

From the lackluster craft that never earned a penny,

From ignorance and spite, from counting and accounts,

Freedom from everything that goads and ties us down.

She's haughty as a saint and jealous as a wife,

Honest as communists killed in the year of purges.

Can we find out at last, what do we need her for,

And what the hell she wants when she herself is freedom?

Why when she speaks, her words are always curt and harsh,

Why with her sightless eyes she gazes so intently,

Why she ties into knots our sinews and our veins,

Forcing us to submit our fortunes to her guidance…

You shook the iron cage, you rammed the fortress walls,

Your vigilant mistrust could not be fooled by cunning,

And yet you did not see how you became a slave,

A sick and dreary slave driven by your own freedom.

Shuffling the ragged deck of doubtful old taboos,

You're straining to create beauty from warped reflections,

And thus, your own life echoes your country's fate

Rattling its heavy chains, dragging the shackles of freedom.

No, I will not depart, nor cut the branch,

Nor hope that Rome and Paris are still waiting.

I fear that there I'll feel a bitter love

For all of this that here I relish hating.

I fear I will not manage to forget

The acrid taste of Fatherland's smoky air.

I fear, because to feel a love for this

Is not impossible, but more than I can bear.

Lately far too many live all out of kilter,

Spitting, picking, grabbing where it's not allowed.

In the man-made thickets, the communal Edens,

There are far too many destitute and screaming.

Magic does not charm them, thrillers bore them silly

Jigsaw puzzle pieces do not fit together.

Driven by the devil, they crave revelation:

Serve up all the truth now, from the past and present.

Let the chasms yawn open, bring to life the pictures

Where the knaves pass judgement and the fools enlighten,

Where the whores and robbers, murderers and stoolies

Roam in packs and solo, slavering and baying.

That's the truth stripped naked, filthy, vicious-tempered,

Brewed of dust and ashes, rabid snarls and screeches,

Petty alms for beggars, pitiful repentance,

More debased than vileness, viler than debasement,

With its loathsome tributes, monstrous celebrations,

With each window serving as the new Golgotha.

That's the truth whose venom seeped into the Lethe.

And, forgive me, never was there any other.

Not this one, not the truth-wit who, inspired,

Pontificates and makes his careless way

Up to the gallows, who is always trying

To put it to you straight and to your face.

Not this self-swallowing snake, this wingless dodo —

But that one, he who lied and covered up,

Who peered into the chasm and understood

That there, within those depths, is not the past,

But our tomorrow, whose assault is yet to come,

Whose stench is yet to rise up to our nostrils.

True tenderness can’t be mistaken

For anything. Quietly it stirs.

In vain you envelop caressingly

My shoulders and breast in furs.

In vain you speak to me softly,

Your humble first love confess.

How well do I know your glances

That insatiably rove and press.

(from Requiem)

Madness has now spread his wing

And half my soul is in its shadow.

He pours me fiery wine to drink,

He beckons me to his dark meadow.

I understand I must surrender,

That victory belongs to him;

As my own raving fills my hearing —

A stranger’s voice, confused and dim.

I know that pleading would be wasted,

It’s useless to implore and weep.

All that I cling to will be taken,

There’s nothing that is mine to keep.

Not the remembrance of my son,

His gaze engulfed in horror, frozen;

Nor the arrival of the storm,

Nor the brief meeting in the prison,

Nor the dear hands, cool to the touch,

Nor the lime trees astir with birds,

Nor the ethereal, far away

Sound of the last consoling words.

(from Requiem)

The choir of angels praised the hour of glory,

The firmament became a molten sea.

He asked His Father: «Why did you forsake me?»,

Then, to His Mother: «Oh, weep not for me.»

Magdalene collapsed, convulsed with weeping;

The beloved disciple stood frozen, dazed.

Yet to where the Mother stood in silence

Not a one would dare to lift his gaze.