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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DEATH OF A YOUNG PIONEER, by                    
First Line: Valya...Valentina
Last Line: To admit the winds!
Alternate Author Name(s): Bagritsky, Eduard; Bagritzky, Eduard


The leaves, refreshed, are trembling,
They bid the storm farewell;
The cliff-chaff's tuneful warbling
Is heard in wood and dell.

Valya . . . Valentina,
Is it day or night?
In the room you lie in
Everything is white.

Someone's kindly fingers
Gently stroke your head.
Valya . . . Valentina,
Why are you in bed?

On your cheeks the deadly,
On your cheeks the slow
Flames of scarlet fever
Dark as embers glow.
There's a mist before you,
You are limp and weak.
Strangled moans escape you,
But you cannot speak.
Doctors crowd around you,
Voices rise and fall . . .
Will their witchcraft help you,
Will it help at all?
Parched and drooping grasses,
Flushed and lurid skies . . .
Swollen lips, and aching,
Heavy-lidded eyes.

Footsteps and a whisper.
(Sleep . . . Sleep . . . Sleep . . .)
Can you hear your mother
By the bedside weep?
"Valya, little daughter,
How you turn and toss.
I have brought your chain, dear,
And your golden cross.
Now you're down with fever,
Nothing's going right,
And the house and garden
Are a sorry sight.
It's a mess the barn is,
And the sty and shed,
And the cows and chickens
Mostly go unfed.
Do your ma a favor,
It's for you I fear,
Wear your cross, my darling,
It won't hurt you, dear."

Down her cheek, unheeded,
Steals a lonely tear . . .
There's a rainstorm brewing,
It is drawing near.

From the roaring ocean,
In a leaden chain,
Clouds are creeping, heavy
With torrential rain.

Valya's eyelids flutter,
And she stirs and sighs . . .
. . . Pioneers are marching
Straight across the skies.
Is it lightning flaring
Or their crimson ties?

To the thunder's drum,
Holding hands they come.

Pushing through the pearly
Storm-clouds, on they go.
She can see their faces
Clearly from below.

High above the forest,
High above the wall
And the silent garden
Of the hospital,
With a blare of bugles
Comes the cheery crew,
Ranks of youthful fighters
In their shirts of blue.

More, and more, and more . . .
Hundreds of them pour

From the left and right,
Blotting out the light:
Pioneers of Kuntsevo
And of Setun too,
Pioneers of Moscow,
All in shirts of blue.

By the bed the mother
Dumbly sits and sways.
What is it she seeks for
In her daughter's gaze? . . .

Valya's lips are burning,
She is short of breath.
Kisses cannot save her
From the grip of death.

"Worked I have and sweated,
Drudged I have and slaved,
Never slept or rested,
Only scrimped and saved,
Just to fill the coffer
And the wedding chest
Full of cloth and linen,
Dresses and the rest,
Just to see you, child,
To the altar led
With a bridal veil
On your pretty head.
Dear one, don't you make me
Beg and beg in vain.
Do your ma a favor,
Wear your cross and chain."

What a dull and irksome
And unloved refrain . . .
Youth is life and vigor,
Youth cannot be slain!

On campaigns it led us,
Once and twice and thrice,
And, intrepid, threw us
On the Kronstadt ice!

Sword in hand, we battled
On our fiery steeds.
Shot we were and slaughtered
In the squares and streets.

But our eyes we opened,
Caked with dirt and blood,
And together, rising,
Firm and fearless stood.

Mock at death and danger,
You, the brave and free.
In the flames of battle,
Courage, tempered be!

So that out of combat,
Out of blood and strife,
Like a song of summer,
Youth might spring to life,

So that in this tiny,
Fever-wasted frame,
It might surge, triumphing
Over death and pain.

Valya . . . Valentina,
Can you lift your head?
There's a crimson banner
Floating overhead.

In the wind it flutters,
Bright and gay and warm.
"Pioneer, be ready!"
Roars the breaking storm.

Raindrops drum and patter,
Bold and resolute.
Valya's fingers slowly
Lift in a salute.

On the sickroom window
Rest her closing eyes.
"Ready! Ever ready!"
Hoarsely she replies.
Cheerfully, the raindrops
Beat against the pane.
To the floor, forgotten,
Slip the cross and chain.

And the frail fingers
Weakly curve and drop,
While the rain comes lightly,
Swiftly to a stop.

As the skies abruptly
Clear and shed their gloom,
Warmth and the dazzling sunlight
Burst into the room.

By the bed the mother
Broken-hearted kneels . . .

Robins fill the garden
With their gleeful peals.

That is all . . .

But no!
To the bugle's blow

Pioneers come marching,
Marching through the morn,
And a song,
A new one,
On their lips is born.

On and on it carries,
And its place it finds
In a world flung open
To admit the winds!






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