Vladislav Khodasevich
Ballad of the Heavy Lyre

I sit where the light is above me,
my circular room is my sphere;
I gaze at a plasterwork heaven
where the sun is an old chandelier.

And likewise illumined around me,
the chairs and the table and bed.
Should I sit with my hands in my pockets,
or where might I put them instead?

Silently, frost on the window
grows palm-trees and icy white flowers;
my watch ticks away in my waistcoat,
metallically counting the hours.

O my life is so worthless, a quagmire
where I'm stuck with no way to get free!
And who can I tell of my pity
for the things that I own, and for me?

And hugging my knees where I'm sitting,
I'm rocking, quite gently at first,
when out of the trance that I've entered
a chorus of verses has burst.

It's nothing but passionate nonsense!
Whatever it means, it's absurd,
but sound is more honest than meaning,
and strongest of all is a word.

And a music, the music of music
is twined in the song of my life,
and piercing me, piercing and piercing,
is the blade of the slenderest knife.

I find myself rising above me,
from where I exist but am dead;
my feet are in underground fire,
and a galaxy streams at my head.

I watch with my eyes ever wider —
how a serpent might see through the gloom —
I see my wild song is entrancing
the comfortless things in my room,

and the things begin dancing a measure,
with gracefully circling charms;
and somebody's heavy lyre comes
from out of the wind to my arms.

And there is no plasterwork heaven,
no chandelier sun any more;
but the blackness of slippery boulders
and Orpheus, his feet on the shore.

Translated by Peter Daniels