(Dedicated to Thor Heyerdahl,
the Great Viking and Master of the Seas)
Like old sagas our world is.
Ancient sagas live forever.
Wrinkled, bent and gray old goblin
Spins his legendary gobelins
In the dark of an icy cavern.
On the hills, where fluffy fir-trees
And pine-trees are high and many
A thick touch of green he’ll throw
And he’ll touch the banks with yellow,
Where the lapping elks are merry.
Here he drops blood in the battle,
There a stitch of love he tries on.
He’ll light up the sunrise cradle
And the blue sea then he’ll meddle
With the line of the horizon.
Goblin throws into the blue sky
A pair of dark and rainy clouds
And above the roaring surf line
He will spin a ray of sunrise.
Then he’ll look, that lucid Goblin,
At the magic on the gobelin.
Northern evening, empty shore ground.
On the rock a bramble’s rising…
Raudi Eirik, Eirik Raudi,
What’d you see there, our old Viking,
There, beyond the foggy motion?
There, away behind the ocean?
Do you see Winland det Goda
Far behind the foamy breakers,
Where the air is windless? So there
Near their drakkar your son Leif’s squad
Sleeps ashore beneath the moonlight
In the sweet bliss of the still night.
Your son Leif has long ago
Left his home and crossed the ocean.
There, on grassy meadows go
Herds of bison without caution.
There the wild goats run about,
There the vines are twining round.
When his hard trip terminated
Under sails across the waters,
They behind the rocky capes then
Are sleeping on their shields and bucklers,
On the fur beast skins, believing
In their coming back one evening.
They are tall, light-haired and bearded,
And their arms resemble oar-trees.
They were born to be the sailors
And were taught to be the traders.
They are brave in cruel combats
And don’t sink in copper goblets.
They’re in dreams of foamy waving,
In strong storms and calms and squalling.
The first glorious deeds aren’t fading,
‘Though the rocks are not immortal.
They’ll be broken by winds and waving,
They’ll be shoreline, dead and sandy.
Far behind Helluland high rocks,
Far away from Markland forests,
The clan’s people through the sea fogs
To the south crossed the waters.
Did the fast hawk’s screaming call them
To Valhalla’s fields in autumn?
Or it was the scream of Fortune
From the heights where Odin rambles?
So, they went into the ocean,
Having left their fears and rattles.
But the sea soon reared roaring,
With the wind being in the quarrel.
And their sail was torn by tempest,
And the dragon was torn to tatters.
And the waves were in the battle,
As if the Sea God sent his Furies
From his coach to catch in meshes
Those who’ve saddled the wild weather.
Their drakkar sailed, sharp-breasted,
And her ribs cracked from the waving.
There’s a lot of ways through tempests,
There’s a lot of deeds unfading.
Time will cover feats of heroes
By the glorious gold forever.
But they found, they found the slopes then,
Which‘d been seen by Bjarni one day,
The eldest son of Bard Herjolfsson,
That far summer, cold and rainy…
But he passed those rocky bar reefs
Catching northern wind in a hurry.
And those shores were gently sloping,
Woods were dense and plains were honey.
And behind them rocks were growing
Up to heaven, blue and sunny.
Not a soul… Over the near reef
Only mew-gulls flew round screaming.
The days were bright and warm and longer.
The soil was so much rich and fertile.
The rivers swarmed with red fat salmon,
The grass was green and soft as cradle.
Near the lake under the mountain
Your son Leif built a winter cabin.
Soon the fall will paint the forest.
Winds and rains will fly together.
Dews will turn into the hoar-frost
And cold morns will bring bad weather.
And the dreams about Greenland.
Will fly away like birds of Dreamland.
In your son those dreams will echo.
He’ll be drawn in autumn drowsiness.
They will call him to the ocean
For long sailing to his house.
Now, your offspring, Eirik Raudi,
Found a new and empty ground.
There the winds, like skalds, are singing
O’er the face of the old ocean.
There the rocks ain’t high and glimmering
As at lands of his devotion,
As at home from where he was called
By the gods to open new world.
He’ll return! D’you hear me, Eirik?
He’ll come home in springtime weather.
He’ll embrace you, our old Eirik,
By his eyes he’ll stroke shore heather.
Sure, Leif’s nornas’re great and magic,
If the sea was not so raged.
How much sad is sea-gulls’ screaming!
How a cormorant flies lonely!
Near the surf the Viking’s dreaming,
The clan’s old chief, so sole and solemn.
Dear souls are birds of a feather.
Sea and land will fight forever.
By the waves the ocean splashes.
The ocean breeze is fresh and salty.
Eirik’s caught in slumbers’ meshes
And his dreams fly round his body…
In the cave the sage bent goblin,
Old and gray like an ancient goblet,
Spins old sagas on the gobelins.
Moscow
July 9, 2004