Is it only dirt you notice?
Does the thaw not catch your glance?
As a dapple-grey fine stallion Does it not through ditches dance?
Is it only birds that chatter In the blueness of the skies,
Sipping through the straws of sunrays Lemon liturgies on ice?
Only look, and you will see it:
From the rooftops to the ground Moscow, all day long, like Kitezh Lies, in light-blue water drowned.
Why are all the roofs transparent And the colours crystal-bright?
Bricks like rushes gently swaying,
Mornings rush into the night.
Like a bog the town is swampy And the scabs of snow are rare.
February, like saturated Cottonwool in spirits, flares.
This white flame wears out the garrets,
And the air, in the oblique Interplace of twigs and birds, is Naked, weightless and unique.
In such days the crowds of people Knock you down; you are unknown,
Nameless; and your girl is with them,
But you, too, are not alone.
