All bridges burnt, these fords cannot be crossed,
It’s crowded – the skulls alone shine black.
All entrances and exists have been closed,
There’s just one way – together, with the pack.
And as two horses, harnessed in a chain,
Depicting how the world is tightly joined,
The pack is moving on the circle in its lane…
This circle’s large, without a reference point.
The palette runs, caught in the pouring rain,
And bursting gallops form a polonaise,
No rhythms, colors, scents or tones remain,
And from the air, all oxygen’s erased.
No thoughtlessness and no inspired devotion
Could ever break this circular closed set.
But is this, after all, - perpetual motion,
This obstinate and endless drive ahead?
***
http://www.bards.ru/archives/part.php?id=15630
Visit Russian Poetry in English for more of my translations
Sometimes it's just a Vysotsky sort of day.
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