Arbat. February

the snow’s white incandescence,
a brilliance blinding to the sight.
its fleeting, fragile luminescence
is given me one final night.

again winterly hours please me,
my cheeks are pomegranate-red.
a muffled coat hides stains discreetly,
rough hands are trembling instead.

breath, so hoarse and complicated,
lets out a cloud of warmer air.
what painter’s insolence ill-fated!
you look — a lazy empty flair.

to shun his gaze I fear too sharply,
I look above, though heart is weak.
all nonsense — none of it can harm me,
if only hours do not leak.

one subtle, whimsical desire
shapes human fates in but a blink.
I fear one disappointment dire —
the judge is faceless,I think.

head is pierced with penetration,
an empty sleeve begins to quake.
a trifle — only revelation,
and coat is riddled, thread to flake.

I do not hold a phantom’s fingers,
as if I know that time is near.
I’ll lose the parting — pain that lingers —
in some new painting, bright and clear.

and winter’s face became our parting,
around me cries rang: “Vivat!’’
and loudly grief itself was starting
its song along the night Arbat!