Woman:
Earth flows away from the shore where I stand,
her trees and grasses, more and more distant, shine.
Buds of chestnuts, lights of frail birches,
I won’t see you anymore.
With worn-out people you move away,
with the sun waving like a flag you run toward the night,
I am afraid to stay here alone, I have nothing except my body
—it glistens in the dark, a star with crossed hands,
so that I am scared to look at myself. Earth,
do not abandon me.
Chorus:
Ice flowed down the rivers, trees sprouted buoyant leaves,
ploughs went through the fields, doves in the forest are cooing,
a doe runs in the hills and cries her exulting songs,
tall-stemmed flowers are blooming, steam rises from warm gardens,
Children throw balls, they dance on the meadow by threesomes,
women wash linen at streamside and fish for the moon.
All joy comes from the earth, there is no delight without her,
man is given to the earth, let him desire no other.
Woman:
I don’t want you, don’t tempt me, keep flowing, my tranquil sister.
Your burning touch on my neck, I still feel it.
Nights of love with you bitter as the ash of clouds,
and the dawn after them, and on the lakes
first terns circling and such sadness
that I could not cry anymore, just keep counting
the hours of the morning, listen to the cold rustle
of the high, dead poplars. You, God, have mercy on me.
From the earth’s greedy mouth deliver me,
cleanse me of her untrue songs.
Chorus:
The capstans are turning, fish toss in the nets,
baked breads smell sweetly, apples roll on the tables,
evenings go down the steps and the steps are live flesh—
everything is begot by the earth, she is without blemish.
Heavy ships are yawing, copper brethren are sailing,
animals sway their backs, butterflies fall to the sea,
baskets wander at dusk, dawn lives in the apple tree—
everything is begot by the earth, to her everything will return.
Woman:
Oh, if there were in me one seed without rust,
no more than one grain that could perdure
I could sleep in the cradle leaning by turns
now into darkness, now into the break of day.
I would wait quietly till the slow movement ceases
and the real shows itself naked suddenly,
till a wildflower, a stone in the fields stare up
with the disk of an unknown new face.
Then they who live in the lies
like weeds at the bottom of a bay’s wash
would only be what pine needles are
when one looks from above through the clouds at a forest.
But there is nothing in me, just fear,
nothing but the running of dark waves.
I am the wind that blows and dies out in dark waters,
I am the wind going and not returning,
a milkweed pollen on the black meadows of the world.
The Last Voices:
At the forge on the lake shore, hammerblows,
a man, bent over, fixes a scythe,
his head gleams in the flame of the hearth.
A resin chip is lit in the hut,
tired ploughboys lay their heads on the table.
A bowl is already steaming and the crickets sing.
Islands are animals falling asleep,
in the nest of the lake they settle down, purring:
above them, a narrow cloud.