Looking over an Autumnal Lake
BY VASYL STUS TRANS. BY ALAN ZHUKOVSKI
This smallpox-scarred autumnal lake, so black—
the anthracite of visions and the flint of scream—
lies glinting with the eyes of Lucifer.
Abyss besots and rubs against my legs.
I see the ravens of the future times
break out of it and make the blackness bleed,
and, razor-winged, they rush upon the sky,
the fragile blue, upon high-throated pines
and to my head, deprived of hope and doomed.
My hoarsened eyes start merging into one—
the repetition of this dismal lake
that has been forced inside my skull.
Exposed,
without a refuge, do you hear and feel
the chilly draft that runs inside your soul?
[This Crowd of Expectations and Young Deaths]
BY VASYL STUS TRANS. BY ALAN ZHUKOVSKI
This crowd of expectations and young deaths,
which rise above despair, this wobbly road
where impulse always overtakes your fright
and fear, like shackles, drags along behind
your speedy legs—all this abruptly reached
a cul-de-sac and came to know its edge.
And each of us got into blinding light.
The sun, for us, broke into little shards.
Now take it piece by piece, like prosphora.
The light we keep inside our memories
will be enough, and there’s no stronger one.
We saw the recent wall come down behind us.

