Photographs

Constantine Simonov

I didn't take your photos outside:
All the same to me - as I recall - when we arrived.
Four days long travel, through the Urals,
My melancholy hidden from curious fellow travellers.

After the battle, I'll never forget,
Amongst bags, thermoses, sabres,
A heap of trophies, the floor covered in dust,
Those photos of women with slanted eyes.

Silently, lovingly lying in pasteboard frames,
Colored lanterns with darkened devils,
tiny, silken fishes,
All of them, even the bloodied ones
Smiling a paper smile of long past times.

"Nice" I might say, casually,
Drop it underfoot, while it smiled back at me.
Heartless? No, just another casualty:
Seizing trophies was not our duty.

No, I didn't take your photos. What were they to me?
Nor will I. But you, Sir, don't be jealous of me,
For the moment try to see,
Sleeping beneath my feet there,
In the dust, General.

Translated by Jerome Raymond Kraus (2008)
© Copyright Jerome Raymond Kraus (2008)