Bird, start up your moan, your whine,

whether like a gunner’s star

or a ladder’s upward climb …

fish, beast, gift of a tsar.

“Tails” each time, and this must mean

muteness—yet do throw the coin—

I forgive you in return

for a penultimate copper tone,

and for a penultimate number,

for the sunshine trees of sleep,

all turned inside out—and steep.

So a master forgives the monkey

in its fustian cap, pell-mell

pulled behind him on a string …

How to guess which hand it’s in,

you, with you I cannot tell.

Translated by Angela Livingstone