My carriage plunging into green as if a ketch,
Floundering through the meadow flowers in the stretch.
I pass an archipelago of coral yarrows.
I look up at the sky and look for stars to catch.
There distant clouds glint—there tomorrow starts to etch;
The Dnieper glimmers; Akkerman’s lamp shines and harrows.
Their necks and wings beyond the reach of preying hawks;
Hear where the sooty copper glides across the plains,
Amid the hush I lean my ears down grassy lanes
And listen for a voice from home. Nobody talks.
after the Polish of Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
translated by Leo Yankevich
first appeared in the Sarmatian Review