[Carl Copeland]

The sense—a hot cry at first light—
of a fiery wavefront impending
set roosters aflutter, soon rending
the moon-flaxen shroud of the night.
A canopy—clouds all in crimson—
adorns the dawn’s cradle of flame.
See the face of the God newly risen
appear—not to you, though, this time.
Your soul, kin to birds on their way
to lark in the blue, is unfolding
its sleep-heavy wings and extolling
the golden rebirth of the day.


Crib

With a hot cry, sensing amid sleep
that a fiery wave is approaching,
the roosters roused themselves/ruffled their feathers, tearing off
the night’s shroud of moon flax.
The clouds are like a crimson canopy,
and the dawn is a cradle of fire.
Look—the face of the resurrected God
will come forth, only not now to you.
And your soul, kin to birds,
will spread its benumbed wings
and, fluttering in the blue, glorify
the golden birth of the day.


Original

Жарким криком почуяв средь сна,
Что подходит волна огневая,
Петухи встрепенулись, срывая
Саван ночи из лунного льна.
Облака — словно полог пунцовый,
А заря — из огня колыбель.
Глянь, — воскресшего Бога лицо
Выйдет разве сейчас не к тебе.
И душа твоя, птицам родня,
Онемевшие крылья расправит
И, в лазури плескаясь, прославит
Золотое рождение дня.