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
