The spent northern sun sways
Like a fireless crucible of ashes
Over these square structures,
This endless stretch of the past…
Below, the dreary Neva yawns
Drifting on with sulky debility –
And the weary city of yore,
Frozen in the mist like a mirage –
Delirium of a genius drifted
Ages ago into lethargic slumber,
Who had lived with the glacial,
tired blood of the past century…
And in the age-old delusions
Of the drowsy, indolent patient,
Countless lanterns are winking
Like purulent eyes in darkness…
And misguided men, roaring cars
And blood streams of clanking
Streetcars – seem to roll out
A canvas by Hieronymus Bosch…
——————Yeghishe Charents
Leningrad-Yerevan, 1921-1937
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
thanks for this fine translation.