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Sweet Darusya
were returning home from
Christmas
caroling
late
after midnight when they
suddenly froze on the spot,
having glanced at the other
side of the choppy ice of the
Cheremosh.
It was so nice there – that
it was almost terrifying, the
way, perhaps, a weightless
soul is before the gates of
heaven. White as though
woolen snows lay from the
top to the bottom as an
immovable shroud, sewn
just by the black peaks of the
silver fir and beech forests,
and tattered in patches of
warm settlements above
which a fragrant smoke
curled. And tiny from afar,
scattered among the silver,
lustrous snows, these dark
spots of houses shone now in
cheerful Nativity play stars;
and between the houses
thin strings of carolers and
Malanka celebrators were
visible, like laced shepherds’
whips.
And Mykhailo and Matronka
leaned against each other so
closely, that even through
their coarse woolen coats
you could hear the quickened
beating of their hearts –
because on that side a men’s
carol began to trumpet
through a buck’s horn, and
fromthis side awomen’s carol
rose abruptly in a violin, and
suddenly the surrounding
mountains shook from both
sides with a single “Hey,
God grant!” And Mykhailo
wanted to fall face down
into the snow on the silver
hill from that side, where
again the horn trumpeted
invitingly, like a mature deer
at mating time; because
nothing else remained in the
world besides the timorous,
bird-like heart of Matronka