And while the last notes of the last
Nightingales continue to glide
The pink foam of hawthorn
Vaguely gleams at your bedside,
While the train bridge lies down
Under the wheels like a suicide
And my life flies headlong
Above the river’s black rippled bed—
Sleep in your glade as if under stage lights,
Sleep—this night is shorter than your love.
Sleep in this fairy tale, in this hive
Of nameless night, in the forest of memories.
So this is when I’ve become who I was meant
To be. With each new day, each day is dearer.
With every night, my impatient judgment
Of fate grows more biased and severe.
Translated by Philip Metres and Dmitri Psurtsev