Boris Pasternak
Venice

So early that it hadn’t dawned,
The ringing windowpanes awoke me.
A moistened pretzel made of stone, —
Beneath me, Venice floated calmly.

Now, all was calm, but all the while,
While still asleep, I heard a cry
And like a mark that had been silenced,
It still disturbed the morning sky.

The Scorpio’s trident, — there it dangled
Above the mandolins. Perchance,
Somewhere afar, a woman, angered,
Had voiced the call in her defense.

Now it was hushed, and in the skyline,
As though a pitchfork, it got stuck.
The Grand Canal, with nervous smiles,
Much like a fugitive, gazed back.

And rushing, hungry and stretched out,
The jaded waves already neared.
The gondolas beat, tightly bound
And honed their noses on the pier.

Beyond the docks of boats, already,
From dreams, reality was raised
And Venice, — a Venetian lady
Was diving off the bank with grace.

Translated by Andrey Kneller