Улица. This street

Arbat awakens memory,
it’s a whole city, not just a street.
It becomes more painful with each of my steps,
but pity is harmful.
Even the brightest lantern,
sensing my thoughts, frowns.
Even the blind windows
see the bitterness of my heart.

A secret portal
to countries sought by the spirit
is wide open.
It’s too hard to breathe, –
the air is full of cemetery wreaths.
In the niches of dusty shop windows
the age-old shawls groan,
echoing the eerie cries
from the tragedies of the Past.

The Phantom of Love wanders,
beckoning me with a look.
It becomes darker with each of my steps.
My voice melts in the ranks.
“There is no place for torn wings!”
the judges will bark at the bailiff.
Somewhere here at a late hour
I will meet my death.

Even if the brightest lantern
instantly frowns,
Even if the sudden rains
pour down from the skies,
Give me your hand, hurry up!
the whole city – not just a street! –
hides a thirst for new miracles
in its gray heart.

September 27, 2010