If youíve found yourself in a strange land at night, If you sit on a barrel of powder, Donít hold back, donít keep silent but cry with all might, I shall hear your voice, shout louder. Perhaps, you lie in a ryefield, a bullet in chest, I am running to you - treading lightly, with ease, just have patience. Weíll go back where the grass and the air are healing and gracious, Wait, do not pass away, just hold on, do your best. If youíre riding a horse, you get home, spreading wings, Your good dun ought to bring you around. It will take you to places with life-giving springs Will patch up all your wounds, make you sound. Now, where are you? Locked up? Do you ramble and roam? What conjunctions, and what intersections of roads are you facing?! Are you tired, have gone off the track, do you find it depressing? Canít you really find the way back to your home? Spurting out from snow, oh so clean are the springs! Splendid brooks of the purest water. All the flowers and plants are nobodyís things We can have them, in fact, if we want to. If youíre dragging your feet, plodding, trudging all day, Getting stuck in the mud, scrambling, treading on stones and on water, Singed in flame, weather-beaten, worn out, on foot or on trotter, Walk, or crouch, or crawl but get home anyway.
© Alec Vagapov. Translation, 1999