It's dawn, sirens are wailing,
Seven a.m.
You that appear like Verlain,
Wake up old man!
Eyes childish, angling,
Green fire makes ash;
Upon the neck is hanging
A colored sash.
He curses, mutters, mumbles
Words lost within;
He wants to make confession
But first to sin.
A disappointed worker
A bitter one
The eye, beat up in melee,
Shines like the sun.
Thus having followed Sabbath,
He drags his feet:
Happy privation stares
From every street.
At home, flying with curse words
And white with rage,
A harsh wife meets and screams at
The drunken sage.
By Osip Mandelshtam
Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat
https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: www.darkrealms.ca (1:229/2)