The Akkerman Steppe

I launch myself across the dry and open narrows, My carriage plunging into green as if a ketch, Floundering through the meadow flowers in the stretch. I pass an archipelago of coral yarrows. It's dusk now, not a road in sight, nor ancient barrows. I look up at the sky and look for stars to catch. There distant clouds glint—there tomorrow starts to etch; The Dnieper glimmers; Akkerman's lamp shines and harrows. I stand in stillness, hear the migratory cranes, Their necks and wings beyond the reach of preying hawks; Hear where the sooty copper glides across the plains, Where on its underside a viper writhes through stalks. Amid the hush I lean my ears down grassy lanes And listen for a voice from home. Nobody talks. <small>— translated from the Polish by Leo Yankevich first appeared in <i>the Sarmatian Review</i>