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Through the metro’s drafts
the electric trains fearfully rattled,
as a dozen layers of ground,
white from human bones,
horses’ skulls,
and grey ash of funeral pyres,
rippled like the skin
on an angry bull’s neck.
Vasyl Stus, born OTD 1938. Transl. by B. Tokarskyi and me.
Through the metro’s drafts
the electric trains fearfully rattled,
as a dozen layers of ground,
white from human bones,
horses’ skulls,
and grey ash of funeral pyres,
rippled like the skin
on an angry bull’s neck.
Vasyl Stus, born OTD 1938. Transl. by B. Tokarskyi and me.