Юрий Левитанский. Откуда вы приходите, слова...

Whence do you come,
Words full of tender trust?
I guess, from where
Stream shimmers in the grass,
and shine between the trees
As if old mansions
Carved from light and shade,
Would rise ahead us.

The forest thickens,
And the fox’s path
Fades into darkness.
Hey, words, hey, words!
Where do you hide from us?
«Oh, words, oh, words…», –
Sigh leaves, and our path
Turns to the owl’s house.

At noon the owl
Flees from the sunlight glow,
Hiding in foliage.
And maybe words too
Are hidden in the green,
Behind tree stumps?
Words’ roots, like those of trees,
Grow deep as well.

The path takes us
to olden, gloomy times,
Man wanders here
On no-name grasses,
Yet to be named as «snow»,
Here something white falls;
And ancient stars, not named yet,
Shine in his eyes.

Oh, what a burden
Lies on forefather’s shoulders!
He shivers deeply,
An artist wakened,
Suffering from pleasure,
He longs for you,
Words yet to come to life,
He molds the clay.


He mixes colours,
Forest’s smells and sounds;
First childish babble
All of a sudden
Turns into genuine words,
Resembling bowstring
Springy and precise,
As if an arrow shot.

Then grass becomes the grass,
This falling crispy frost
Is now snow,
Those shapeless lumps are stones,
That graceful floating wonder
Is called a swan.
All things given a name,
The world is born.

From ancestor
I take all dear words,
The sylvan noon
Vibrating in each sound,
Reflecting trees, their letters
Still wet of dew,
And I feel dizzy bringing
These words to you.