Georgy Ivanov
I imagine everything wrapped in a beatific mist...

I imagine everything wrapped in a beatific mist:
Statues, arches, gardens, flowerbeds.
The dark waves of the lovely river...

Once the memories start to flow,
it means ... But perhaps all this is nonsense.

Like a wild beast from its lair, crouching,
Sick, I crawl into the cold of Paris...
"Poor Folk."¹ Oh, how tautologous!
Who said? Was it I perhaps...

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1. The title of Dostoevsky's first novel, a poignant depiction of Russian poverty in St. Petersburg.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort