(An Old-World Ballad)

Along the edge of the world at night
in the light of the Lord's candle
somebody is wandering alone
with an angel on his shoulder.

He's walking towards nowhere, to non-return,
he's walking lazily like a child,
and the gray pendulum of life
prods him from behind,

so he won't roam at night
in the light of the Lord's candle,
so he won't ramble around
with an angel on his shoulder.

A whirling wind blows,
a pestilential Herod howls,
the pendulum is striking stronger,
the barely alive angel is moaning.

But he keeps going on and on,
though the candle's no longer breathing,
just his lips quiver:
angel, don't fall from my shoulder.
Translation: 2000, Michael M. Naydan