It was winter. The first day of the week was slightly seen.
The shepherds at the night-watch were whiling away the time,
And less than short existence of protein bodies was passing in the time itself.
The Moon’s disk reminded the hungry jackal of a flatbread with meat,
And hoarse howling stitched across the sky
as disagreement with such menu.
The straggler sheep had no intention
(despite the Isaac’ laws)
to bleat its “beeeee” and to resist the power,
which ear for music could tip the bowl with ease,
And therefore kept silence and lagged towards the flock,
Preferring to walk around the stones,
instead of gathering or scattering the rocks.
One of the shepherds – taught to count
pulling the fingers out of his fist -
raised his eyebrows with surprise
and found out, besides the shortage,
the gain and profit of the light
in that side of the sky dome
where the deeds are knitted subtly.
Deeds, deeds, deeds…
What business for the shepherds mean those stocks
and mortgage, and arbitration judges -
for whom it’s cheaper not to blame than to forgive
and thus their justice is as immeasurable,
as mantle above the belly is dimensionless;
What business for the shepherds mean the hagglers’ disputes
Concerning which discount
will quicker fool the buyer;
What business for the shepherds mean temple money-changers,
To whom it’s easier to surrender than repay;
What business for the shepherds mean the Pharisee’s debates
about the prophecy priority,
the power of belief in splendid pomp of rituals.
Another thing is – wind, and sky, and stars...,
so if arguing with somebody – much better is with them –
those, whose breath is more purely, depth is incomprehensible and
Twinkling is more infinitely lonely.
And quite another thing is learning to listen to the wind
and in its breath to grasp the hidden sense and
follow it for the New Star.
And so it happened:¬ the shepherd followed the Light;
sublime relief on the horizon tried for the last time
to detain the Dawn, again in vain;
The lazy oxen were chewing the cud at grotto’s entry,
Giving the place tî Baby in the mange.
The cocks crowed – without a chance for a mistake already,¬
The sleepless stayed with their own,
The night came down in the sea along the slopes,
The lost sheep reached the flock,
Along with first rays shadows came back to the owners
Not leaving any space to dreams.
And each - is Tsar above his soul,
for each - are Mona Lisa mysterious landscapes,
And it was all as of old bequeathed
And it was the fifth day.
And they crucified Him.