When the streets empty out
and the singing dies down
and a white fog covers
the swamps and the town,
from the forests in silence
one after another
the wolves come out and go hunting.
Seven wolves walk on bravely;
in front of them walks
an eighth with white fur;
while bringing up the rear
is a ninth, who is lame:
with a heel that is bloody
he completes their mysterious procession.
Nothing frightens or scares them.
If they walk through the town
not a dog will bark at them,
while a man will not dare
even to breathe if he sees them.
He becomes pale with fear
and quietly utters a prayer.
The wolves circle the church
carefully all around;
into the parson’s yard they enter,
with tails sweeping the ground;
near the tavern they listen
pricking their ears
for any words being said that are sinful.
All their eyes are like candles,
sharp as needles their teeth.
Go and take thirteen bullets,
with goat’s fur plug them in,
and then fire at them bravely.
The white wolf will fall first;
after him, the rest will fall also.
When dawn comes and the townsmen
are awoken by the cock,
you will find nine old women
lying dead on the ground.
In front, a grey-haired one,
in back, a lame one,
all in blood… may the Lord be with us!
by Алексей Константинович Толстой (Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy)
(1840s)
translated by Ilya Bernstein
Rambling At The Bridge Head 