Sasha Chorny
My love

Some love a laundress and others love a duchess,
Each person's opiate is his own,
But I'm in love with the concierge's daughter.
Our romance is an autumnal thing.

On our block, Liza is considered stuffy,
She doesn't like displays of love,
But still she often sneaks around to see me,
Escaping from her mother's stays.

I take my guitar off the wall
And twirl my mustache with panache,
I've given her all: Korolenko's¹ portrait,
And a string of green beads.

Softly, softly, pressing close together,
We chew our salted almonds,
A November fugue is played us by the weather,
We are warmed by a Russian shawl.

And now Liza's cat creeps in after her,
Sniffing around the apartment floors,
And all of a sudden it stretches its neck,
Leans on the table and sits down before us.

The chimney cactus stretches its thorns,
The kettle gurgles like a bumblebee,
Liza's hands are wonderfully warm,
Her eyes are like a young gazelle's.

The twentieth century has fled clean away
And we are not sorry for the past;
We are shipwrecked sailors, just two people
Eating our almonds in peace.

But then when floorboards squeak in the hall
And the door is opened wide,
Liza leaves with eyelids lowered
By her mother's side.

Books are scattered on the ancient desk,
Her kerchief lies abandoned on the floor,
And sticky figs are scattered on my hat;
In the corner lies an overturned chair.

Let me try to make clear what has happened
Now that Liza is gone.
I have to tell the solemn truth,
Liza is only three years old.

___
1. Vladimir Galaktionovich Korolenko (1853-1921), a Russian writer of warm, humanitarian, lyrical tales who was bitterly opposed to the Bolshevik regime.

Translated by Bernard Meares