The city sleeps, wrapped in the haze,
The streetlamps barely glimmer...
And I can see the morning rays
Beyond the Neva, start to shimmer.
This distant and opaque reflection,
This gleam of the awaking blaze
Conceals the nearing resurrection
Of dreary, melancholy days...
Город спит, окутан мглою,
Чуть мерцают фонари...
Там, далёко за Невою,
Вижу отблески зари.
В этом дальнем отраженьи,
В этих отблесках огня
Притаилось пробужденье
Дней тоскливых для меня...
«Petrichor. Bell towers resound. / Heart is wounded joyfully — by whom? / Who has thrown the stone on the ground, / Who broke in the chamber of my tomb? Mare's tails; sky deepening and lumining, / Pearls of daylight scattered... Am I worth?.. / As a maiden on her first communion, / The...»
«In Spring, along a waving stalk, a fly / Ascending sees set high / Above her on a flower, / A bee, ensconced as in a bower; / And haughtily remarks: — "A busy state is yours / That all the day from morn to eve, duU work endures! / Called to vexatious toil, I might indeed have faint...»
«The sullen rain / cast a glance / askance. / Beyond the still / clear grille — / the iron reasoning of wires strung overhead — / a featherbed. / And on it / rested lightly / the legs of rising stars. / But as / the streetlamps — tsars / in crowns of gas — / began t...»
«With those broad brims, jackets long and spruce, / With notebooks full of verses — all your own, / So long ago to ashes you reduced, / Like blooms of lilac, off its branches blown. There, where you are, to form is nothing bound, / All things are blurred, disjoined, vague and shapeless. /...»