Cool Water gurgles in the river
and the mountains’ shadow lies on the fields
and light fades in the sky. And birds
are already flying in dreams.
And the yardman with the black moustache
stands all night by the gate
and under his dirty hat he scratches
the back of his head with dirty hands.
And through the window come merry shouts,
the stamping of feet and the ring of bottles.
A day goes by, then a week,
and then the years go by
and people vanish
in neat ranks into their graves.
While the yardman with the black moustache
stands for years by the gate
and under his dirty hat he scratches
the back of his head with dirty hands.
And through the window come merry shouts,
the stamping of feet and the ring of bottles.
The moon and the sun have paled,
constellations have changed shape,
motion has become sticky
and time has become like sand.
While the yardman with the black moustache
stands again by the gate
and under his dirty hat he scratches
the back of his head with dirty hands.
And through the window come merry shouts,
the stamping of feet and the ring of bottles.
by Даниил Иванович Хармс (Daniil Kharms, 1933)
translated by Robert Chandler
Rambling At The Bridge Head 