"IN THE BIRCH TREE GROVE" poem by Nikolai Zabolotsky sung in Lokshin's Symphony No 10.
Translations by Walter Barshai All rights Reserved © No reproductions without written permission by author
INTRODUCTION. THEME. (Chorus)
In this birch tree grove,
Away from suffering and mishaps,
Where glimmers pink-colored non-blinking morning light,
Where a transparent flow
Of leaves pours down from high branches, -
Sing me a song,
Oh! Oriole, song of emptiness,
Song of my life.
Having flown over an open space
Having seen humans from on high,
You have chosen a wooden
Unremarkable pipe
So in the freshness of the morning,
After visiting a human abode,
I can meet my day
With an innocent pauper's prayer.
And above the birch grove,
Above my birch tree grove,
Where glimmers pink-colored
Non-blinking morning light,
Where a transparent flow
Of leafs pours down from high branches, -
Sing me a song,
Oh! Oriole, song of emptiness,
Song of my life.
CONTRALTO SOLO
It was long ago.
VARIATION I
Thin from starvation, in rage,
He strolls through the graveyard.
While leaving, at the gate, unforeseen,
From under the fresh cross
From a low rising wet grave He was noticed
And called by someone unseen.
A gray-haired peasant woman,
Wearing a worn out scarf,
Arose from the ground
Silent, sad and stooped.
Mumbling salvation for the dead,
She extended a wrinkled, dark hand,
With two mill cakes,
An egg and with a prayer.
And thunder struck
His soul and at once
Hundreds of horns exhaled screams,
Stars fell from the skies.
Restless, pitiful
With a spark of his suffering eyes
He accepted the alms,
Tasted bread of reprise.
Now he's a famed poet Even though not loved by all,
Understood not by all at all -
If, though he lives again
By the charm of years long gone
In his sad and ascended purity song.
And a gray-haired peasant woman,
Like an old, tender mother,
Has embraced him.
Left his pen in his study,
He wanders. Solitude looming
He tries to grasp
What only the old
And infants know.
VARIATION II
With the face thrown up to the sky,
With uncovered head
He's stuck to the gate
God forsaken old man.
All day sings
And his tune is sadly irate,
Piercing right in the heart,
Strikes passer-by for a wink.
And around old man
There're tremors of new generations.
Gardens are in full bloom
With the lilac and its connotations.
In the white grotto of black alder
Day ascends all the way to the skies,
On the silver leaves of the plant,
Blinding everyone's eyes,
Why to cry, blind man?
Why to suffer by spring?
No trace left of hope,
No trace left to cling.
Hollow emptiness, void,
Can not cover foliage of spring,
Half dead eyes
Can not open, ever, alas!
And your life -
Like a large, habitual sore,
Never loved by the sun,
Not related to nature by virtue,
Learned to live in the depth of eternal fog,
Learned to look
At perpetual face of the darkness...
I'm scared to think,
That at nature's end
I'm as blind as he is
With a face thrown up to the sky
In the depth of my soul
Can trace the prophetic waters
And I seek its advice
In my grievous heart.
Where am I dragged
By the dark, horrible muse
On the roads of Great Motherland?
Never, never looked for a union,
Never wanted to be under thee, -
You have chosen me,
You have pierced my soul,
You've pointed to me
The wonder of the world...
Sing old blind man!
Night is near. Night lights,
Echoing you,
Shining far with indifferent stance.
INTERMEDIA II. Chorus.
In this birch tree grove
Far from sorrow and sadness
Where glimmers pink-colored
Non-blinking morning light,
Where a transparent flow
Of leaves pours down from high branches, -
Sing me a song,
Oh! Oriole, song of emptiness,
Song of my life.
VARIATION III (Contralto Solo)
It was long ago.
Now, he is a famed poet,
Even though not loved by all,
Understood not by all at all -
If, though he lives again
By the charm of years long gone
In his sad and ascended purity song.
With wide brimmed hats, long jackets,
With books filled with their own poems,
It's long that you fell to dust,
Like branches of fallen lilac.
You're in the land that has no ready forms,
Where all is broken, mixed and taken off
Instead of sky - there is a gravely swell
And moving not the orbit of the moon.
Are you at peace, my friend?
Or burdened you by what?
Have you forgotten all?
Your brothers now are - roots, ants,
Grass, breathes, and mounds of dust,
Your sisters now are - carnations
Lilac's nipples, splinters, chicks...
I have no strength remembering your tongue
Your brother's tongue, left over, above salvation.
His place not yet in this terrain,
Where you've dissolved into the lightness of the shades,
With wide brimmed hats, long jackets,
With books filled with their own poems.
CHORAL (Chorus)
The speech of lovers is broken,
The last starling has flown,
All day maples are shedding
Silhouettes of purple hearts.
What have you done to us, autumn?
The earth is cooled off by the shade of red gold.
The flame of sorrow is whistling
From under our feet,
Stirring up hips of the old.
Nikolay Zabolotsky (1903-1958)