Something from an untidy Russian life,
from homegrown truth in the trough,
from a dried bunch of grapes:
I dream of these since there aren’t enough events.
I dream simply of circles in front of the eyes,
the harsh chords of alleys in perspective,
so that my face is suddenly flooded
with tears. This cloudburst stands in my throat.
The doors open in the morning of their own accord
like a book at the required page.
Then I dream of some little square without
a subject and then simply of water.
So the sense of loss is growing dull,
memory gradually rusts like a knife.
Even when I am dead I will dream sometime
of these eyes, greener than the river by day.
Translated by Richard McKane