Spring (Fragment 3)

Is it only dirt you notice?

Does the thaw not catch your glance?

As a dapple-grey fine stallion

Does it not through ditches dance?

Is it only birds that chatter

In the blueness of the skies,

Sipping through the straws of sunrays

Lemon liturgies on ice?

Only look, and you will see it:

From the rooftops to the ground

Moscow, all day long, like Kitezh

Lies, in light-blue water drowned.

Why are all the roofs transparent

And the colours crystal-bright?

Bricks like rushes gently swaying,

Mornings rush into the night.

Like a bog the town is swampy

And the scabs of snow are rare.

February, like saturated

Cottonwool in spirits, flares.

This white flame wears out the garrets,

And the air, in the oblique

Interplace of twigs and birds, is

Naked, weightless and unique.

In such days the crowds of people

Knock you down; you are unknown,

Nameless; and your girl is with them,

But you, too, are not alone.