By Daniil Kharms
(Late 1937 - Early 1938)
Our world’s been struck by God’s own wrath.
A glowing day whirlpools with heavenly thunders.
And the coward dares not drink any wine.
The wedding feast falls silent
Beside a crackling bridal chamber door…
Until a ceiling plank collapses… Through the floor.
And lyres blare away with moaning.
The worm-like coward slides into a rocky crack.
The earth starts quaking.
A riptide snaps the numerated rope-line
And battered vessels hop on stormy waves.
A world that celebrates a retribution given unto vice.
And when the coward is awaiting trial,
Their gaze well-hidden from God’s vengeance,
Deep underneath the mountains, with the roots,
At once, a massive burst of moaning
Beats into them from every human soul,
Enmeshing dog wails, piling all-together
From all directions, like an endless heap of trash.
And now the measly coward’s waiting for one final blow,
A doom by fate foretold, and pulled
Across the rushing mess of time and steam…
And so: upon some sweltered day that stifles eyes,
Or maybe under winter cold,
A morbid chill would prickle through our blood.
And no one could withstand a splitting of the heavens.
Nor stand to glance upon such marvels’ cosmic swirls,
Nor linger where the planets’ fiercest glow unfurls.