Petersburg i do not want to die yet
Osip Mandelshtam
digging up ghosts doesn't equal the rebirth of christ
my friend told me
and i remained silent
i listened to the murmur of my old city
the prayers on its lips burned
by autumn, its tears of spring gray
the muffled big sighs of its greenish fogs
the suspense before the ovation of snow
in its wintry theaters
its spider cracks
on the stairs of beautiful palaces
and how iron rings through the fences
of its summer garden
the laced stones are still soaked by rains
sob above disembodied steps
on the straightforward pavements
of my old city
the melody is still being spilled
through the window
by someone invisible
as it disappears into a black shadow
of a tree -- into the well of the dirty courtyards
the ghosts of the poets tormented to death
hide on marble benches for a friendly conversation
with each other
and then back to wandering around the city
whispering the wind brushing their autumn
burned lips their spring gray tears
their prayer which we still have to learn
equals the resurrection of the Word.
5 Апрель 2010 г.