K h l o p u s h a
Crazy confusion,
blood-soaked and grim!
What are you? Death? Or the
healing of cripples?
Lead me to his presence,
lead me to him,
I want to see the man in the
thick of it.
For three days and nights
your camp I've been seeking.
North clouds were stone-grey
and thunderous.
Praise to him! Even if he's
not Peter!
The rabble adore his mettle
and guts.
For three days and nights
along paths I stumbled,
In salt lakes my eyes sought
success in vain.
My hair, like straw, by the
wind was ruffled
And thoroughly flailed by
chains of rain.
An embittered heart, though,
will never be baffled,
It's no easy task to chop
off my head.
Dawn over Orenburg, a
red-haired camel,
Gave me sunrise milk and I
was fed.
Its firm cool udder in the
twilight dim
I pressed, like bread, to my
eyelids. Quickly
Lead me to his presence,
lead me to him,
I want to see the man in the
thick of it.
...........................................
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Where is he? Surely he must
be here?
The heart I bear is heavier
than boulders.
Folk have forgotten me, that
much is clear —
Khlopusha, the villain and
desperado!
Laugh away, fellow!
Sleuths of quality
Are sent on your dismal camp
to spy.
I've been a jailbird and a
convict,
A murderer and a forger was
I.
But, as you know, always
sooner of later
The hour of reckoning waits
with a snare.
They clapped me in irons,
tore off the nostrils
Of this peasant lad from the
land off Tver.
For ten long years —
Ten — want a bet on it? —
I was convict or vagabond,
down on my lack.
This warm flesh of mine was
worn by a skeleton
For plucking, as down from a
swan is plucked.
It mattered not a damn that
I wished to live,
That my heart was weary of
flinching at cruelty.
Dear fellow,
To the landlord a peasant is
Of no more concern than
sheep or poultry.
I prayed to the yellow
coffin of dawn.
My fetters with blue hands I
was sucking...
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