BUNIN, Ivan

The Stone Idol

Dead grasses parched by heat. The steppeland, seared,
Runs on and merges with the sky's pale reaches.
Here is a horse's sun-bleached skull, and here
An idol with its flat, stone features.

How somnolent this face, how roughly hewn
This crude and massive torso! With a sense of
Half-conscious fear I meet its vapid grin,
So timid, so defenseless.

O thing of darkness born! A deity
Were you not once, revered and venerated?
It was not God that made us. It was we
That slavishly the gods created.

Rakhil's Tomb

“She passed away, and was interred by Jacob

Beside the road…” And on the tomb, no sight

Of any name, inscription and no mark up.

At nighttime, there’s a gleaming feeble light,

And whitewashed with chalk, the grave’s cupola

With enigmatic paleness is attired.

I’m timidly approaching as the night falls

And kiss the dust and chalk in awe and thrill

Of this tombstone, artless, white, and cold

The sweetest of the earthly words! Rakhil!

I came into her room at night...

I came into her room at night.

She was asleep. The moon shone bright

Into her window, catching glints

In her discarded satin quilt.

She lay asleep upon her back,

Her naked breasts had spread apart.

And while she slept, her life stood still,

As still as water, left to chill...