The Twelve

By Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok

III

Our sons have gone

to serve the Reds

to serve the Reds

to risk their heads!

O bitter,bitter pain,

Sweet living!

A torn overcoat

an Austrian gun!

-To get the bourgeosie

We'll start a fire

a worldwide fire, and drench it

                   in blood-

The good Lord bless us!

-O you bitter bitterness,

boring boredom,

deadly boredom.

This is how I will

spend my time.

This is how I will

scratch my head,

munch on seeds,

some sunflower seeds,

play with my knife

play with my knife.

You bourgeosie, fly as a sparrow!

I'll drink your blood,

your warm blood, for love,

for dark-eyed love.

God, let this soul, your servant,

                rest in peace.

Such boredom!

XII

… On they march with sovereign tread…

‘Who else goes there? Come out! I said

come out!’ It is the wind and the red

flag plunging gaily at their head.

The frozen snow-drift looms in front.

‘Who’s in the drift! Come out! Come here!’

There’s only the homeless mongrel runt

limping wretchedly in the rear…

‘You mangy beast, out of the way

before you taste my bayonet.

Old mongrel world, clear off I say!

I’ll have your hide to sole my boot!

The shivering cur, the mongrel cur

bares his teeth like a hungry wolf,

droops his tail, but does not stir…

‘Hey answer, you there, show yourself.’

‘Who’s that waving the red flag?’

‘Try and see! It’s as dark as the tomb!’

‘Who’s that moving at a jog

trot, keeping to the back-street gloom?’

‘Don’t you worry ~ I’ll catch you yet;

better surrender to me alive!’

‘Come out, comrade, or you’ll regret

it ~ we’ll fire when I’ve counted five!’

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! But only the echo

answers from among the eaves…

The blizzard splits his seams, the snow

laughs wildly up the wirlwind’s sleeve…

Crack ~ crack ~ crack!

Crack ~ crack ~ crack!

… So they march with sovereign tread…

Behind them limps the hungry dog,

and wrapped in wild snow at their head

carrying a blood-red flag ~

soft-footed where the blizzard swirls,

invulnerable where bullets crossed ~

crowned with a crown of snowflake pearls,

a flowery diadem of frost,

ahead of them goes Jesus Christ.

Some verses translated by Jon Stallworthy & Peter France