Joseph Brodsky. I am by the Sill

“Л.В. Лифшицу (Я всегда твердил, что судьба — игра)” by Joseph Brodsky (1940 – 1996)

I've been always insisting that the Fate's a mere game,
that fish is useless when caviar's the same,
that the Gothic style will prevail at last
quite as apt as a knack to get high with no blast.
I am by a sill seeing aspens through glass.
A few people I loved — but so strongly, alas.

I've always deemed woods as a part of a tree,
that I don't need dames, but merely their knees,
that an eye of a Russian, should it be very tired,
may take rest just on brink of Estonian spires.
I am by the sill. The dishes are done.
I felt happiness here — but now it is gone.

I've always described lightbulbs' fear of floors,
that the love's not a verb — just a noun, no more,
that Euclid was wrong, proving cone's top is a null,
not at all: it becomes a sufficient timeline.
I am by the sill recalling my youth.
I'm either smiling — or disgusted, forsooth.

I've said that a leaf kills its own bud,
that good seed is wasted should it fall in wrong mud,
which is true in fact: the Nature's self-pleasing
will result in birth of a half-empty clearing.
I am by the sill holding both of my knees
and my tangible shade accompanies me.

And although a fine tune is lacked by my song
no choir on Earth can sing it along.
And I do talk like that, so no wonder why
my neck lacks the touch of one's ankles or thighs.
I am by the sill in the dark. Like a train
storm roars outside behind the curtain.

As a citizen of a low-rated age
I proclaim that all of my thought-filled pages
should be low-rated too and be given to days
in which people are struggling against strangling pace.
I am in the dark. What I have in my mind
is that room's dark is as good as outside.

2026