A Poem from Kazakhstan
[Untitled]
At the edge of the village a woman in a stupa ground millet.
She whistled brazenly, calling the wind from the steppe
to keep the chaff flying so her eyes wouldn’t sting.
They all protested — she brings on the wind again —
“She’s summoned a hurricane,” “plays with the storm.”
The wind blew over the grain.
A storm-cloud was born deep inside the stupa,
rose over the house,
taken in by the people, animals.
Mighty golden eagles dispersed.
Foxes barked.
The fire in the samovar hooted like a locomotive.
A swarm of blind husks. Her pestle beat to fatigue
in the mortar’s cage. The grain grew heavy.
“That will do, enough!” —
then she lifted herself over the stupa.
The wind dropped like a hunting dog
on the doorstep, exhausted.
Translation from the Russian
