Yakov Shudrikh

The golden tale, my child, has vanished,
I heard it told by the fleeting wind.
The golden tale has flown far off,
it hovers with the golden sun above.
So I’ll sing to you now, my child, listen well,
another story of our great world I’ll tell:
the tale of that world is a bloody one,
a tale about peasants and white-robed noblemen.
The nobles dwelt in dazzling palaces,
the peasants to them being lackeys and serfs.
The peasants drove plows over a great expanse,
thus flourished grains and the sweetest produce.
In autumn the heavens burst into tears
and the nobles imbibed wines and liqueurs.
And from the trees, leaves rotted and fell
while their bared branches were all atremble.
What befell that land, what occurred then?
A great gathering in the courtyard grew —
the peasants were hurting with nothing to chew
while bellies swelled from out the nobles’ sheds!
Like birds from the nest, hunger drove peasants
from their huts in seeking sustenance…
And on the way the wind snapped at their clothing –
— Let’s put a stop to this! Onward! Let’s get going!
But gendarmes discharged their lead bullets
and blood congealed on the gardens and cobbles.

And the tale, my child, keeps on spinning.
But I won’t spin it now — it’s time for sleeping.
Some day you’ll likely give it an apt conclusion
when you’ve grasped it with its due comprehension.

Translated by Miri Koral