It's dawn, sirens are wailing,
Seven a.m.
You that appear like Verlen,
Wake up old man!
Eyes childish, angling,
Green fire makes ash;
Upon the neck is hanging
A colored sash.
He curses, mutters, mumbles
Words lost within;
He wants to make confession
But first to sin.
A disappointed worker
A bitter one
The eye, beat up in melee,
Shines like the sun.
Thus having followed Sabbath,
He drags his feet:
Happy privation stares
From every street.
At home, flying with curse words
And white with rage,
A harsh wife meets and screams at
The drunken sage.
By Osip Mandelshtam
Translated by Ilya Shambat
https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat
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