FROM STONE

I’ve been given a body. What should I do with it,

So singular, so my own?

For this joy, quiet, to live and breathe,

Who, tell me, am I to thank?

I am gardener, but flower too;

In the world’s dungeon I am not alone.

On the windowpanes of eternity,

My breath, my warmth has already settled.

On it a pattern is pressed,

Unrecognizable of late.

Even if moment’s gloom streams down—

The pattern, so dear, won’t be crossed out!

1909

Osip Mandelstam

translated with Kevin Platt