By Daniil Kharms
The morning’s here.
The fussy day
Already climbs above the world.
Under the garden’s white plum tree
A shadow rests a charcoal circle.
Now, on the radio already
Fresh signals are relaying noon;
While on the corner, nimble journals
Shout of what happened back at dawn.
Already folks puff-up on beer;
Already trolleys rush from here;
Already lamps dim in apartments:
Already night is knocking at the windows.
The night’s arrived.
And people breathe
Into the depth of sleep,
Forgetting all their business;
Their eyes unsee things
And their ears unhear,
Soon their earthly bodies
Turn immobile
While stars are sparkling bright against the blackest sky;
A little leaf is trembling on a tree.
The waves are splashing to and fro,
The scions of a distant sea;
A stream purrs from a tallest mountaintop.
A rooster cries.
The morning has arrived.
Already afternoon is chasing after morning.
Already Brahmaputra, from a thunder cloud,
Is casting onto fields a healing shadow.
Already air is blowing pure and nippy,
Already dust is swirling in a circle.
An oak-tree leaf, ascending, flutters to.
Above us thunder roars out, swarms.
Already Petersburg is bubbling with its Neva
And wind keeps whistling lengths of woods.
While Jupiter, which shimmers with pure thunder,
Is flaring in the sky with countless swords.
And now the sun starts flashing out a ball,
With all its heat shoots at the earth from heavens.
This ressurects the waters into fog,
Condensing into living clouds their smoke.
Until (once more) a fearful shower pours;
Until (once more) shines hard that sunny sphere;
One moment heaven weeps, another laughs,
Sometimes it’s joyful,
Then again it grieves...
- Shardam 17th of August, 1935.
The Children’s Village