David Samoylov
From childhood

I’m small, my throat seized by angina,
It's silently snowing outside,
And daddy is singing: “Like nowadays,
Does Oleg the Prophet decide…”

I’m hearing the poem and crying,
Attempting to hide shameful tears,
To choke sobs with pillows, and trying
To beg him, “More, more, let me hear.”

Dull buzzing comes in from a distance,
The dormant apartment keeps still...
And over our fragile existence
I’m grieving - small, silly, and ill.

Translated by Evgenia Sarkisyants