Mikhail Kuzmin
I see: at the window...

I see: at the window sited,
Mother declines to her child,
And trying to catch his feet idly,
He rose them, putting aside.
His day is the long one and golden,
His nights — like without an end...
And a year — like a wonderful model,
Of the future long years’ train.
With a charm, from the little cats loaned,
He smiles through his sleeping, content...
A mother is always Madonna,
A child — always blessed as a saint!
They’ll later come here from background —
His passion, his fervor and toil,
And where, in the world, might be found,
The word, helping him not to fall?
The old and a child are atoned
With wisdom, but not — an adult: 
They live in a light’s sacred zone,
The others — just see their light.
But put in disorderliness earthen,
Be sure: through your passions and pleas,
You’ll see — we are children of Heaven
By His ever merciful knees.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver