Georgy Ivanov
The old man shuffles to the fish market...

The old man shuffles to the fish market
To buy half a pound of perch.
A mimosa glitters with drops of rain.
The river’s smooth surface gleams.

O, these provincial lodgings.
Local voices. The barking of dogs.
Life here consists of food and drink.
A bed. A roof. Tobacco.

Vistas. Clouds. One’s like an angel.
Another's like a Newfoundland dog.
And a third is the image of Wrangel,
With a monocle screwed in his eye.

But Wrangel — that was in Petrograd,
Poetry, champagne and snow...
O, pity him, with his thickening blood.
For God’s sake — his legs ache so!

No one will take pity on him.
And why pity him — why?
The creaking old man is dying, dying.
As all men have to die.

What's left, I ask. al! the same.
For me still to relish?
Gardens verdant after springtime rain.
The mistral, half a pound of fish.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort