Pozdney nochjyu

Late at night, bovine blood
I will pour at the ploughed field.
As the finger bends — and henbane leaf,
Mouse tail will flinch, an owl cry
With the wind is carried away,
Through the field, through the fences —
To every yard.
Through the windows, following the sun,
Through the chimney — into every house.
Late at night, bovine blood
I will pour at the ploughed field.
As I utter the word sacral,
The word occult, the word forbidden —
I’ll rush through the village as a plague,
Let the young and the old die — to my honour.