From Autumn Dances Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

I

Give me your hand, sister, I'll lead you
To autumn. From its jug shall arise
Flaming punch, we shall drink it until
We grow ripe like the autumn, and wise.

Over there on the hill lies a shepherd.
A windwolf has devoured all his sheep.
Sunglow freezes on his pale hands,
At his feet, a tree bows deep.

In the field — a bright sheaf, embracing
A lady sheaf, strolling by in the light —
A bridegroom leads his bride where a cloud
Faithfully makes them a bed for the night.

But a windmill is already grinding their sunset,
Grinding legends, grinding the wind on the run,
And paints with dream-color your brow
Till you yourself go down in the late sun.

Rolling stones shiver like lyres,
Rolling words grow drunk and rancid.
Let us scatter our cares in the field,
Let us dance the autumn dances!

IV

Noisily, zestfully, in haste,
Cavalcades of trees on the road —
Entwine me in their branching fantastics,
In a treetop vision of halfdream.

I become a part of their tangle,
Gallop along with the trees —
To the stars! I, their friend, slice
With my head through the horizons.

Over fields, beam-children are dozing.
(Whose hand has planted them here?)
Through shadows of bowing assemblies
I ride with the riders in the night.

Rivers. Villages. I hover over them.
What I hover over becomes mine.
Just a boy, I grow up to be a hero
With a new goal, a new being.

Suddenly — an amazing moment:
Wild swaying. Shoving. Terrors range.
Over me — the diamond Vega,
Close to me — my life, large and strange.