Varlam Shalamov on his poems, which were born on Sundays and survived

With cave dust, with blue mould
My poems are smeared.
They were born on Sundays,
Sparing of words and quiet.
They grew up fast, like beasts,
Baptised with Epiphany snow
In frosty darkness, in marsh damp.
And yet they survived.
They do not boast of ancestors,
They care nothing for descendants.
With their granite cage
They will be content for many years.
Now, woken by birds
That are not nightingale voices,
They cry out about what they always dream of
In the cosiness of stone and forests.
Anyone who knows my life will forgive me
For analogies
Drawn from zoology
And from the edge of reason.

Literal translation

Varlam Shalamov