By Osip Mandelshtam
(1921/1924)
One cannot breathe, the castle teems with maggots,
And not a single star is speaking forth,
But, God knows, there's music up above us,
The depot's throbbing with Boetian song.
And violin-like once again, together
Pools air, by locomotive whistles torn.
A massive park. The depot's glassy globus.
The iron world once more in rapture's sway.
Out to some noisy feast in misty Hellas,
With festiveness, the wagon fleets away:
A peacock scream and fortepiano ruckus.
I'm far too late. I'm dreaming. I'm afraid.
And so I pass into the depot's glassy forest,
The violining order, fussing teardrop-drenched,
The wild beginning of a nightly chorus,
And every rotting greenhouse, roses-stenched
— Where in the nomad crowds, by glassy heavens,
A dearest shadow all night long was benched.
And it occurs to me: so beggarly keeps trembling,
By foam and music shawled, this iron world.
Leaned on a glassy canopy, I'm standing.
A burning steam blinds eyeballs of the bows.
Where goes you? At dear shade's memorial
One final time for us the music flows!