Innokenty Annensky
A picture

Finely, finely, as though from a
Sieve, the fog rains into the tarantass.
The pale day rises angrily, unable
To shake off its dizziness.

My long road is empty and flat...
Only at the black villages, endless
And ever more melancholy, like
Slanting rain, is there a wattle fence.

Hark!.. The crow’s cawing has
Awakened, the rooster rises in the hut,
And through clouds of sticky flies
The horses are treading ponderously.

But the knots of the gray tails
Of our troika’s three bays,
The bridges’ new planks, the
Black boards of the building -

All is swimming in mire and mess,
Softened and stuck together...
In the night I could not sleep
At all; can’t I try to here?

Yes, you fall asleep... and you
Lose your cap. That is what happens...
Keep to one side! - Just see! Wrapped
In rags, an Amazon is before me.

About seven years old. Her hands
Are grabbing the bridle and
They won’t let the jade graze;
And another is led on a rein.

Turning round, she looked with
Eager eyes at the carriage,
And jogged along in the fog,
To disappear like a mirage.

And drowsiness yielded to the
Biting reproach: “This is a
Festive day for her. This is
Morning, the morning of life!”

Translated by R. H. Morrison