All that is human slips away;
everything was mere husk.
All that is left, indivisible,
is birdsong and dusk.
A sharp scent of warm mint,
the river’s far-off noise;
all equal, and equally light –
all my losses and joys.
Slowly, with its warm towel
the wind dries my face;
moths immolate themselves
in the campfire’s flames.
by Варлам Тихонович Шаламов (Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov)
(1955)
translated by Robert Chandler