The nebulous bursts,

The semibarbarous surges

clad in the colors of Eastertide,

and he sings and dances, mystically,

and in dancing he plunders

alders, birches, larches.

All is fairtime and market and the merry-go-round

and the barrel organ is crammed with the noisemaker

and it is raining pure vodka

and fireworks are set off

to the sparks of a pipe

and the orchestra is flaming in the wood.

A fiddle-bow Catherine-wheel, all,

and trumpets spurt skyrockets

up to the constellations

and the drums are cracking

and the tom-toms slap the stars

with terrible golden blows.

All turns to dizziness,

the moujik idiocy

vomits divine cacophonies,

the night grows sad with stars

sluggish as living chains upon the steppes.

Peace!  It is Night, O Black Earth!

But the music surges rowdily forth

from the red and inextinguishable crater.

February 12, 2011, 12:00am