Shrovetide Boris Kustodiev (1878-1927)

RUSSIA
(poetic oratorio)

* * *

We are threatened again by the Tatar horde –
Autumns yoke is unlikely to frighten us.
The grass, slightly browned,
Will believe in the icy needles of frost.

For some days now, you see landscapes –
And images of summer live in memory.
But autumn is preferable – this
Glassy, elevated stillness.

How brightly the jewels burn!
A numismatists collection, wine spilled.
The earth is riddled with numerous burrows,
And birds fly in a gray haze.

For what does the fiery ball punish?
We drink infusions of rowan berries by grace.
But the streets are transparent and empty,
Yet the bush is about to explode – just touch it.

Autumn rain – almost a blessing,
This moisture should not be cursed.
But look, evening, in essence, hides –
The trophy will be the sum of old roofs.

Do not speak of past times…
Gladiolus fires in the apartment!
The clocks have stopped. But in the clocks
There is no truth about – how familiar? – world.

Yes, many things are impossible to know,
And many things are impossible to comprehend.
When you count gloomy numbers,
You want to run away from reality.

We trample on wonderful foliage in vain –
It will be burned in bonfires at a transparent dawn.
I imagine the city as too fragile,
I want to break away... lets go to Lithuania.

It is unlikely that you will escape to Lithuania:
Pretend to be an impostor, or buy a visa.
You dont know how to win.
Trust the old cornice instead,
Where pigeons, like notes, if your gaze
Can extract music from lines.
But if your handwriting has changed sharply –
In your soul, there is probably hidden hell.

However, we are one with the foliage,
And the needles are unlikely to scare us.
And the wind rushes in like a Tatar horde,
And it is given to collect gold.

We are not threatened by arrows, and there is no death.
The river flows, and the street is calm.
Years and wars disappear into nowhere,
And only light remains eternal.

* * *

They are selling bagels everywhere... The food
At the fair is generally diverse.
A bear is amusingly tumbling around,
And the cries of hawkers are full of temptation.
Did the Firebird drop a feather?
Has your ardor not been quenched?
Reality unfolds brightly.
And theres a place for lovers by the river.

The barge is rusting. The boat is sailing.
And the steamer playfully frolics with its plies.
Some cozy town awaits someone –
Someone who recently bought a factory.
Familiar, dense clutter of
Fences and wooden houses.
And the bright glow of a tall cross,
And the hustle and bustle of sinful days.

You are waiting in vain for a letter.
The church smell of incense and wax.
Reality is very abundant,
A swamp from the point of view of a teenager.
In the ravine, there will be a pile of roofs –
So it seems – not from a birds flight.
In winter, you hear the quiet rustling of berries.
And Saturday slowly ends.

Towards evening, you really want to walk
Along winding and old streets.
The cathedral bids you stop –
You must pray sincerely and passionately.
Various pictures... Bargemen,
Volga, and ancient merchants,
Whose plans are extremely grand.
Faces and masks meet.

Postcards from unknown cities,
Quite uniform, that is, boring.
And the voice of an Asian is harsh,
It is quite disharmonious.
In the tavern, a musical apparatus
Sings Goodbye, my dear Augustine.
A clerk drinks. Students talk.
But nothing happens in general.

An estate. And an evening samovar.
The forest darkens like a massive wall.
And the old man is very old. But what is old
Doesns incline to early rest at all.
Cousin and cousin. A banal series
Of events. Piano on the veranda.

Sounds fly into the evening air.
The one who plays doesnt need talent.

Carriers are diligent in cities.
Lights burn in a luxurious restaurant.
Alas, it is impossible to describe in two words
How delicately rowan berries smell in sour cream.
There are many details. Its a pity that the overall harmony
Is disturbed, and something else is not interesting.
You cant catch the tail, and you cant go back,
And we wont hear old songs again.

Puffs on honey tasted good.
I am full, and there is a lot of sunlight.
I cannot imagine a terrible disaster
In a clear сюжет.
Listen, friend, the bell is ringing – it flies,
Swaying, changing something in the air.
From a sum of troublesome worries
You need a reasonable rest.

No need for unthinkable ideas!
In the minds of townspeople, there are memories
Of lush pies – and about all
Reality – with blooming geraniums.
Still, the warm life is not spoiled,
Which will later be terribly slandered.
The absence of events or battles
Testifies that everything is fine.

According to ancient rules of life,
Lets trust the household, friend.
To the black emptiness of nothingness
There are enough claims to be a hero.
Alas, these are not fruits of philosophy,
But Asia triumphs everywhere.
And here are the reins of power
In the hands of someone who constantly lies.

He is a leader. Is he a human? More like a mollusk.
Absurdity will last without an emblem.
I am somewhat afraid of the future –
Because the problems will remain the same.
Is it scary to find yourself in emptiness?
And a flock of demons are joyfully raging.
We are moving towards an unknown goal,
And we see disappearing faces again.

The clergymen stand killed,
Merchants, and patrons, and heroes.
Above the cemetery, there is a ravens hell.
Royal chambers are stained with darkness.
And soot, and a pungent stench hangs in the air.
The Asian horror frightens the soul.
And nothing can restore the order of being.
Oh, who are we? Let me understand, let me figure it out...

* * *

A distant forest – like an injured bird,
Spreading two large wings.
The river flows, and the gray water
Is just as it was before,
When faces were yellow with anger.

Its a decent amount of time until autumn.
Mystical mystery of flow!
You will not be alone by the water,
Everything is at your service – all vegetation.
Here is a stake set by a fisherman.

And the bank is steep. And swallows nests
Look around intently –
Or does Argus guard this air?
And a quiet meadow turns green gently.
And an old landscape pleases the mind.

Tents and cars. Fishermen
Are preparing dinner. It smells deliciously of porridge.
And the silhouettes of fishing rods are close
To a sentimental soul – that is, our.
A lazy movement of the hand...

He casts a spinning rod,
Dreaming of a лещ (perch), but maybe a sterlet.
The terrible century has recently ended –
Now, I hope, everything will be fine.
We have lived another Thursday.

In general, it doesnt matter: Friday, Wednesday.
But summer is enchanting as it burns out.
A bonfire, of course, is closer than a star –
Unknown, distant, colorful.
And everything else, besides happiness, is nonsense.

A hastily covered table: mushrooms and bread,
A little sausage, and a lot of vodka.
The surrounding world is cunning and ridiculous,
Thats why hearts and throats are burning.
... perhaps the gaze of eternity is blind.

And here is darkness. And the black river
How much does it enchant with its calmness?
It flows to you from afar,
And somewhere there is an end.
But in life, a lighthouse is lacking.

Heres a song that has begun, but
It will subside and dissolve into space.
Reality, my friend, is doomed.
And it is given to enjoy the long night –
A great reward.

And it certainly isn