Vladislav Khodasevich
Orpheus

I sit in my room round and tiny
Awashed by the light from above,
Look up at the stuccoed skyline
Dawn-dusked by a sixty watt sun.

My things, lit as well, they surround me:
The chairs, the table, the bed.
I pause, hands confused, where to hide them?
My thoughts race, unravel like thread.

Frost bitten, white, graceful palm trees
On window panes silently flower.
My watch with its metallic ticking,
In vest pocket clicks, marks the hours.

Oh futile, beggarly bareness
Of hopeless, despairing life!
These things and I share in sadness,
Who’s there to tell of our strife?

And I begin slowly rocking,
While hugging my pointed knees,
And suddenly poetry flowers,
I’m dazed and verse flows with ease.

These jumbled, yet fiery speeches!
Ungrasped by the crowds — words fall,
Where sound is more candid than meaning,
And word — more tenacious than all.

And musical, musical, musical,
The melodies twirl into song.
A thin blade creeps silently, craftily
and piercing, cuts me along.

And over my dead self I tower,
Rise up over "me" and the pale.
My feet make the hell’s flames cower,
And stars dance and spin in my hair.

My eyes grow large, pupils dilate
Like eyes of a serpent they stare
At wretched, attentive surroundings,
Which hear songs wild with flare.

And into the slow, round dance moves
The room and its furniture flow.
And someone, a heavy black lyre,
To me, through the gales, bestows.

The stuccoed sky disappears,
The sixty watt sun’s no more,
And onto the granite black boulders,
Young Orpheus steps on the shore.

Translated by Athena