Tristia O. Mandelshtam

I’ve learned the lore of separation

In bareheaded longing night’s complaint.

The oxen chew, and waiting is vexation -

It is the time of city’ vigils running late.

These rooster’s night rites I revere, that instant

When, hauling up a load of grief, the throng’s

Tear-stained eyes are peering at the distance

And women’s weeping was the Muse’s songs.

Who can predict, when one says “separation” ,

What kind of parting would it be and what

Should than it mean to us - that rooster’s exclamation,

When light on the Acropolis is burned

And at the dawn, some new existence prior

When oxen lazily chew roughage at the stall,

Why does the rooster, new life’s town crier,                                

Flaps wings uneasily atop the city wall?

I love the artless yarn to be in habit:

The shuttle scurries and the spindle hums.

Lo, like a down of swans - go on and try to dab it -            

Barefooted Delia flies straight into your arms!

Oh, our life’s scant fabric! It’s much lower

This tongue of joy of ours, indeed:

What was before, will be repeated over,

Only the strike of recognition is still sweet.

Thus let it be: the figure, small, transparent,

Spreads like a squirrel pelt upon a clean clay plate,

And bending over wax, a maiden makes apparent

What’s given to perceive about night and fate.

In battles men draw lots - to them that right is given.

For women, wax is what for men is brass.

Not men to ask of Erebus. But women

Have privilege to die while telling fate for us.