Near the ocean coast. Candles lit. A sort
of an idyll. Fields are beset with clover.
At the break of night pretend you are the god
Shiva every arm stretching to a lover.
Dashing to the grass owls make no noise.
Deals and rafters creak now and then, rotten.
In a wooden town these days you've little choice
of what to dream: all dreams are of half-forgotten.
Fresh fish smell, the gauze stirring in the frame,
a shadow on the wall - a pretty pasted painting
of a chair; the moon’s tucking up waves
as a mother tucks up edges of a blanket.
23 октября 2009
Оригинал «Около океана, при свете свечи; вокруг …» И.Бродского