St. Petersburg’s so close to the pole
it’s never night from mid-May to mid-July,
the sun doesn’t set, just hesitates
at far rim of visible world,
turning the sky into yellow amber.
Weighty are the days, endless as depression,
pointless as longings;
but now I hear again the deer’s bleat ring out silvery
from the game perserve, announcing it’s not so long
till mating season, till September,
and the coming of the Northern Lights.
It reminds me of when I too believed
things could change, that that snow and cold would come,
when I believed, as the poor and sick believe,
that the holy water in the font’s blue bowl
has the power to bless.
I believed in future sleighs, not realizing
that if they were as little as that in the distance
it meant they’d never reach us.
I believed in things, while the heavy bells chimed,
far off, as if from some holier time.
М. Лозинскому
Он длится без конца — янтарный, тяжкий день!
Как невозможна грусть, как тщетно ожиданье!
И снова голосом серебряным олень
В зверинце говорит о северном сиянье.
И я поверила, что есть прохладные снег
И синяя купель для тех, кто нищ и болен,
И санок маленьких такой неверный бег
Под звоны древние далёких колоколен.