Wilgelm Zorgenfrey
Over the Neva

Late night over the Neva.
There, where they are keeping watch,
A siren sends up its vicious howl,
Acetylene flares, a pillar of fire.

It’s quiet again, and dark once more.
The storm has swept the great square clean.

The winged angel on the column
Holds aloft its misty cross and gazes down
On forgotten palaces,
Broken pavements.

The frost bites deeper, the wind grows angry,
Water flows beneath the ice.

Upon the ice bonfires glow.
The sentry goes on duty.
Telegraph wires hum above:
All hail to thee, Petrograd!

In the dark recess of a palace wall
A phantom corpse has taken shape,
And the dead capital
Stares into its ghostly eyes.

Atop the granite by the bonfire
The Specter of the last Peter
Hides its eyes, trembles,
And sobs bitter tears in denial.

Foghorns wail piteously.
Wind whistles along the river.

Darkness melts. Dawn awakes.
Steam rises from the yellow ice floes,
Yellow light glints through the pane.
Citizen calls to
    Citizen:
        “What’s for dinner, citizen,
            Today?
        Have you registered, citizen,
            Or not?”
        “Today, citizen. I
            Got no sleep:
        Swapped my soul for a pint
            Of Kerosene”

A sharp squall blows in from the bay
Hurries to build a snowy rampart —
So that all might be quieter still and darker
So that the souls of the dead might rest.

Translated by Sophie Lund