Sasha Chorny
Bullfinches

So, there against the blue of winter glass
In empty room a slender Swede is folded —
She bends above her work as if in class,
Just like a silent child when she’s been scolded.

The scarlet bullfinch is her picture’s theme,
Along with fading sheaves — so strangely soft and silky.
And from the doors comes frosty gusting’s scream,
The space behind the glass is stark and snowy-milky.

And now the greying mist will bring a deathly chill.
And distant pines are silent in the gloaming.
O finches, will the sweet spring come here still?

The needle drops. And now her vision will
Beyond the crags with timid cast be roaming.
It’s windy. Hushed. The spinning snowflakes spill.

Translated by Rupert Moreton