The Troika

Troika, troika! The snow moon whirls through the forest. Where lamplight like a knife gleams through a door, I see two graybeards bending. They're playing chess, it seems. And then one rises and stands in silence. Does he hear me passing?

Troika, troika! In the moonlight his spirit hears my spirit passing.

I whip the horses on. The houses vanish. The moon looks over fields littered with debris. And there in trenches the guardsmen stand, wind fluttering their rags. And there were darker fields without a moon. I walk across a field, bound on an errand. The errand's forgotten — something depended on it. A nightmare! I have lost my father's horses!

And then a white bird rises and goes before me, hopping through the forest. I held the bird — it vanished with a cry, and on a branch a girl sat sideways, combing her long black hair. The dew shone on her lips; her breasts were white as roses.

Troika, troika! Three white horses, a whip of silver, and my father's sleigh . . . When morning breaks, the sea gleams through the branches, and the white bird, enchanted, is flying through the world, across the sea.