The Enchanter Poem by Emil Sharafutdinov

What a starry night today, behold!
Until late the Enchanter must have toiled:
Ascended hills, walked in the shade of dales —
He is the deathless lord of mortal days.

When he is not idle, when the sky is clear,
When forest shadows thicken for the night is near,
He walks among trees in his cloak and pointed hat,
With a crooked wooden staff held in one hand.

Across his shoulder a pouch he has,
It is filled to the brim with countless stars,
And there are stretched invisible strings
Everywhere from trees to celestial beings.

He pulls the strings down where he stays
And there, in heaven, in bottomless space
Great gods, having shaken off midday drowse,
Bend with a smile in reply to his bows.

Here the sack with the stars he unfastens,
From heaven he lowers cages with lanterns,
Encloses in each a glaring star
Or two, or even a galaxy far,
And gently he lifts them into the skies
While the purple sunset dies.