Vladimir Nabokov
The fog of nighttime sleep...

The fog of nighttime sleep, the dusty plaque of languor,
I wash them off by gently-gold heavy sponge,
Which’s full of swollen foam soap in all over,
The fragrant thick and very charming storage.

It’s lightly bluish, in the pool of milk-white water,
Which‘s slightly visible, but stirring vapor,
And I place me with all my grateful body
In its calm heat and gentle flavor.

And afterwards, enjoying that silky care,
I often like the icy moisture to obtain
My blades to pour one moment and there
By fluffy sheets I need me to entwine.

Then while my skin is slightly dry I drape it
With cool and light textile fabric of own,
With songs of struggle, searching for a feat,
It's fair to say, that both ready - body and soul.

So every little thing we - children, poets,
Are always able to apply into a miracle,
And in the usual we heavenly signs guess
And our any touch, make color it...

Translated by Galina Devyatkina