In summer, the Volga is midnight blue.
In winter, it’s paper white.
In blue, white seagulls wash their wings,
In snow, black shinels move.
Back then, I knew no names of stars,
I was transparent as glass,
Suspended on Volga in tandem with carps,
Worshiped by silver-bark nuns.
In prayer, in white-and-black robes they stood,
Shoulder to shoulder, kissing the earth,
In blue, the sun was singing its song,
In white, the rain ding-donged.
Swallows with wings like knives in the sky,
Rippling the hot summer breath,
A thunderstorm barked from somewhere far,
In rhythm with the thud of an axe.
Out of sudden gusts of the time,
Barge haulers loomed on the shore,
Dragging the wood against the flow –
Repin’s sujet restored.
Bony chests exposed to sun,
Pulling forward despite fatigue,
A glimmer of hope was felt in the eyes –
Fish jumped in joy from beneath.
