Arseny Tarkovsky
The Portrait

In my home there is not a soul.
Just the portrait on the wall.

Crawling across blind eyes
There are flies,
        flies,
                flies.

And I ask her — Is it nice
Under the glass, in paradise?

Flies climb down across the face,
The old woman softly says:

— Dear, how is life at home?
Are you happy there alone?

Translated by Natasha Gotskaya