Vladislav Khodasevich
In Petrovsky Park

He hung without swaying
Thin belt on branch's bend.
His hat — a black remainder
Marred freshly combed sand.
Left palm, pierced by the nails,
Of still, yet stiffened hand.

The sun ascended slowly
For noon its horses set,
He faced the morning Helios
In somber tet-a-tet.
The man with frozen eyelids —
A risen silhouette.

And focused, focused, focused
His gaze was on the east.
Below, a crowd gathered
The voices hushed and triste.
Slim belt almost obscured
By early morning mist.

Translated by Athena