Fyodor Sologub
At times there comes a strange smell wafting...

At times there comes a strange smell wafting;
From whence its source I cannot say.
But I relive what’s been dark often,
A kind of smoldering foggy day.

Like then, once more I climb up sadly
The run-down porch at evening
And once again unlatch the creaking
Bolt turning on the rusty ring.

And see the narrow rooms before me,
Where every floorboard squeaks and purrs,
Where the mildewed, damp wallpaper
In the corners slightly stirs,

The dull pendulum dimly swinging
Listens as evil speeches bite,
And for so long someone’s been praying
And crying hard throughout the night.

Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks