Down in the pine needles <br />in the snowstorm-stogged ravine <br />an Evenki idol stands <br />fixing his eyes on the taiga. <br /> <br />Aggressively squinting, <br />he watched until the time came <br />when Evenki women started <br />hauling presents to him. <br /> <br />They brought him mukluks and parkas, <br />they brought him honey and fur, <br />figuring that he’d pray <br />but mainly think for them all. <br /> <br />In the dark assurance <br />that he’d understand, <br />they’d smear his mouth <br />with warm deer blood. <br /> <br />But what could he do, the phony <br />little god, <br />with his fierce, wooden <br />whittled-down soul? <br /> <br />Now he’s looking through the branches, <br />abandoned and dead. <br />No one believes in him; <br />no one prays to him. <br /> <br />Did I just dream this up? At night <br />in his ravine, far off yonder, <br />he sets his eyes <br />on fire, overgrown with moss, <br /> <br />And listening to the snowstorm <br />blast down, licks <br />his lips. Lord, I know it. <br />He wants blood. <br /> <br /> <br />Translated by James Dickey with Anthony Kahn<br /><br />Yevgeny Yevtushenko<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/idol/
