The black grand piano, the gleaming spider
trembled at the center of its net of music.
In the concert hall a land was conjured up
where stones were no heavier than dew.
But Balakirev dozed off during the music
and dreamed a dream about the czar’s droshky.
It rumbled over the cobblestones
straight into the crow-cawing blackness.
He sat alone inside the cab and looked
and also ran alongside on the road.
He knew the journey had lasted long
and his watch showed years, not hours.
There was a field where the plow lay
and the plow was a fallen bird.
There was an inlet where the vessel lay
icebound, lights out, with people on deck.
The droshky glided there across the ice
and the wheels spun with a sound of silk.
A lesser battleship: Sebastopol.
He was aboard. The crew gathered around.
“You won’t die if you can play.”
They showed him a curious instrument.
Like a tuba, or a phonograph,
or a part of some unknown machine.
Stiff with fear and helpless he knew: it is
the instrument that drives the man-of-war.
He turned toward the nearest sailor,
made signs despairingly, and begged:
“Cross yourself, like me, cross yourself!”
The sailor stared sadly like a blind man,
stretched out his arms, sank his head—
he hung as if nailed in the air.
The drums beat. The drums beat. Applause!
Balakirev woke from his dream.
The wings of applause pattered in the hall.
He saw the man at the grand piano rise.
Outside the streets lay darkened by the strike.
The droshkies were rushing through the dark.