On a dry branch, which broke off the tree

Lonely wanderer sat and with drowsy gaze

He was staring at brook’s bubbling waters.

The old branch, a discard from the past,

Was so swept by a sudden compassion

That if it had a tongue and could speak

Would have chased off the wanderer’s anguish.

Long ago, in its distant past, 

When the branch was awash with the bloom

Many lovers would often seek shelter

In the coolness of lush foliage. 

And the wanderer’s eloquent verse, 

Where sorrow yielded to passion 

It would hear on many a night.

But the wanderer knew not of this 

And continued to gaze at the water.

Brook’s clear water, the vagrant of Earth,

Which had quenched its inhabitants’ thirst,

Recognized the great poet in wanderer’s garb,

Who transformed mere droplet, a sibling,

Into shining star on God’s dark skies 

By the force of his brilliant talent. 

Brook’s clear water, the vagrant of Earth,

Which was never held captive by earthlings

And which proudly carried its greatness

Through the centuries both blessed and cursed,

Laid prostrate at the feet of the poet

As submissive and humble subject

At the feet of a mighty sovereign.

And it playfully tossed him a droplet,

That the wanderer once glorified,

But it failed to attract his attention.

‘Cause the poet was wondering why

All the bird in the trees sung so merrily,

And disturbed the sanctity of silence

Which was filled with so much of his grief

For the one who his heart had belonged to.

But the birds were aware of the instant

Fleeting second that’s known as Life

And they were in a rush to pour 

Their immortal souls to the poet

Through their magnificent songs

As they longed to remain in his verse.

The mighty wind gusted to the scene,

Capable of uprooting trees

It only brushed away the dead leaves

So their rustle wouldn’t disturb

The poet’s train of thought.

It ought to have brushed away wanderer’s grief…

But mighty wind knew that under fair sky

Where we are but passers-by 

The anguish of the soul is the price for poetry

Eternally dwelling in the Universe.

The mighty wind knew that time will come

When the old tree branch, which shared poet’s grief

Will become sacrosanct destination

Of many a pilgrim who’d kiss the ground

Upon which the wanderer rested,

Dreaming of the one who poet’s lonely heart

Refused to cast into oblivion.

By Liana Margiva

Translated from Russian by Anatol Kardiukov