Arseny Tarkovsky
Here, a house once stood. Inside, some old man...

Here, a house once stood. Inside, some old man
lived with a child. And now the house is gone.

A hundred kilo bomb — the earth, blacker than black.
A home, now none. That’s war; what can be done?

On a heap of gray rags, a samovar gleams.
A dresser, nearby a horse. Above the horse, steam.

Along the ruined wall, some goosefoot weeds will grow.
The wretched ghosts of war will make a home

right here, forever. Without them, who would moan
at night, whistle and writhe in unheated stoves?

Translated by Philip Metres and Dimitri Psurtsev