To sob, pressing oneself against the officer’s greatcoat—
gives one a special colonial thrill.
West is West—but this is East.
Do you see where we’ve got, you and I?
The famous atmosphere of the Fifties
has staled here, back to front.
Preserve of childhood.
Again, again
the shoulder-straps on the uniforms of young fathers
smell of oranges and gold.
How many of us are at table, how crowded it’s got!
Dream of childhood.
The family clan
closing ranks, like the crown over the head
of the eternal tree. Its scent is corporeal.
Don’t wake. The lips of mothers
taste silver and mint.
How deathless, how rich
we were in their love …
We were borne off into the dream, into the dark.
You will wake—the desert in full bloom,
soft sound of singing on the other side of the wall—
a coachman, who keels over toward the snow,
a spring, where the light is hot
over the icy waters of life.
Translated by Daniel Weissbort