Vladimir Nabokov
To Motherland

Blessed be nights; their solitude evokes
Quiet talks to you through wisps of smoke.

Many stars look down, big and small,
And a lonely mouse rustles by the wall.

In my chest, I touch a tender bone
Motherland, it's yours and yours alone.

In your air I'm still immersed,
I exhale it in my pining verse.

Scarlet palms on Easter holy night
Guarded many candles' sacred light.

And the arches of my bare soles
Are still longing for your poignant soil.

My whole body for your image aches
And my soul soars over Neva's waves.

I lie down and smother my cigar,
And your spring engulfs me from afar:

My home porch, that oak tree with its stake,
Sandy alleys leveled by the rake.

Translated by Olga Dumer