SWAN
A flock of swans slept in the swamp.
Eternal night was ink, and there was a fog…
All around slept, only a white swan
Silently he shed the blood of his wounds.
And he sang a song, a song of a swan,
About blue lakes, about the beauty of the steppes,
About the big sun, about winds and clouds,
And a swan sang far away.
He called to wake up, to spread his wings,
Fly in the sky to the golden lands…
A flock of swans slept peacefully,
And in vain the swan called, woke her.
And when he saw that the brethren heard not,
What forever chained them to himself became -
He cried out in agony, struck a stone,
He wounded his chest, broke his wings.
The black night was ink, it did not shine in the morning,
In the evening the distant sunset did not burn…
The flock slept quietly, the swan wept softly,
He quietly bled, died quietly.
Only one morning the waves roared,
And thunders sounded with loud trumpets,
The sun broke out, blinded the eyes,
Distributed around the horizon clear.
The flock flinched, the white one shouted:
"The air is rotten here, the water is rotten here! ..
And above us the sun, the sky, space, will! "-
And shamefully could not sleep anymore.
A flock of foam rustled on the waves.
Noisy wind… again! And - goodbye! ..
And it flew easily, like a white cloud,
And shouted from heaven about a happy land.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Quietly, quietly, the white swan came down with blood,
Then, squeezing the wounds, the wings parted…
And fought in exhaustion… A flock of swans!
Did anyone in the sky remember the swan?
2.IV.1917
