Little mushroom, white Bolitus,
my own favourite
The field sways, a chant of Rus'
rises over it.
Help me, I'm unsteady on my feet.
This blood-red is making my eyes foggy.

On either side, mouths lie
open and bleeding, and from
each wound rises a cry:
—Mother!

One word is all I hear,
as I stand dazed. From someone
else's womb into my own:
—Mother!

They all lie in a row,
no line between them,
I recognize that each one was a soldier.
But which is mine? Which one is another's?

This man was White now he's become Red.
Blood has reddened him.
This one was Red now he's become White.
Death has whitened him.

—What are you? White?—Can't understand!
—Lean on your arm!
Have you been with the Reds?
—Ry -azan.

And so from right and left
Behind ahead
together, White and Red, one cry of
—Mother!

Without choice. Without anger.
One long moan. Stubbornly.
A cry that reaches up to heaven,
—Mother!

1917-21