by Anzhelina Polonskaya
Translated from Russian by Andrew Wachtel
Soon it will be winter and soon
a nightingale with a bandaged throat,
a plum tree in bloom, and a white
hill brought to the door.
Illness arrives like Mozart,
sits down at the black piano
and touches the voice with a tone.
I see January, a blockade,
you’re sketching Paul Klee’s boat,
big on petite.
It sails along, the fool, not knowing --
can’t brush the wave from its eyelash.
Somewhere a shutter bangs shut,
and you bend toward the sketch.
Mozart creates like a god!
And the two of us, childless.
We’d be husband and wife,
together forever it seemed.
But burned by Greeks and barbarians
we fled, leaving no trace.
Last updated June 19, 2011