Yuri Maksimov, from Bumazhnoe Zerkalo, 2003.
Translation of Joseph Bayerl.
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This will most likely seem odd,
But I’ll share my impressions all the same,
Of how in an old and distant city
I wandered in… to the Museum of Lonely Souls
Out front a sign hung to convey
That admission is free of charge,
And any guest who wants may stay
To find their refuge here.
The only provision, hard and fast, is that
The soul — alone, overt, pristine,
Shall have its image archived here
So long as it be alone.
Great dark halls stood silent
Shimmering with hundreds of candles,
And people’s souls, as though on pedestals,
Stood behind glass with candlelit auras about.
Their expressions melancholy, mute and mournful,
Were hardened like beads of amber resin.
It seemed that all these sculptures lived
But no, they are motionless… mere castings.
Here is a young woman’s body exposed,
Head bashfully held low,
Breast shielded with a timid hand,
And an inscription: “I search, but have not yet found.”
And that soul, all pricked and scarred,
Froze with a prayer on her moist lips:
“I tired of roaming in the quest for truth,”
And the narrowed eyes have gone dull.
There an eternal romantic with secreted dream
Raised his gaze boyishly to heaven.
He heeds every sign in the skies,
And is glad of every whisper from the stars.
A little aside, all transparent and clean,
Poised to answer with delicate string,
The soul of a music performer was stilled
In eternal disquiet and inward debate.
And that the figure with fixed stare
Bent over a book that lays open in his hands,
Like an angel hearkens to God and the Word,
To discover his faith in the heavens.
A despondent philosopher’s Rodinesque pose,
An old storyteller, and somebody’s widow,
A child, like a precocious shoot in the snow,
Deprived of love and familial warmth…
Oh, how many there are, these lonely souls,
Cast off by fate and collected here!
Similar, different, distant and near,
I tried, but I couldn’t keep count.
This spot is empty, but the former caption
Can still be seen upon the showcase,
Here the Master sought Margarita,
And newly inscribed, “Alone no more.”
I walked long in the pensive halls
By the dark dance of quivering shadows
But about me mere exhibits stood,
And, in the museum, no person could be found.
By the exit was a table with a neon light,
Where requests could be made on the spot,
Here was the offer to fill out the form,
Effective right here and now.
But I decided against leaving my soul here,
My lifeless double under cordon.
At the exit; I looked back again
And silently quit the dismal museum.
I often think back about that museum,
I’d like to go back there again,
To look upon empty cases
Newly inscribed, “No longer alone.”
But I cannot return to that city,
I’ve forgotten the road, and can’t get there.
But I’m grateful to fate all the same for the prompting,
For the chance, for the faith that IT CAN BE FOUND!
2004