Konstantin Balmont

The gang has finished hunting and was eating.
Were cracking bones of a horse and deer.
Behind their fires was a slope sheer.
And on the edge he quietly was sitting.
   
On the least edge. The youngest. Such a beating
Of animals didn’t help his dream to rise.
He ate a piece and got up to his eyes
A holed bone. Blew. The sound’s fleeting.

The very glad, he called for it again. 
The purling whistle. Like the birdie’s singing.
They were all laughing. But the flute his ringing

He’d understood. His movements – smart and plain,
Holes were looming sounds of complain.
The cry of joy. He’d lighted his sun winning.     


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August, 2003