Why do I fly to that town,
With its blue cathedral on a hill?
I knock at the red doors
And feel lips on my throat.
I’m becoming myself entirely,
I am fed, like a bird, from the hand.
And on that rectangular rug
Firmly I take my stand.
Happy is he whose trade it is,
Lovingly in a crystal shower,
To cleanse my eyes, my mouth, my ears
Of all that drifted on the wind.
I dream my blouse becomes
Like powdered snow upon my back.
And before I leave, I dream
Of a dog staring straight at me.
By Ю́нна Петро́вна Мо́риц
(Yunna Petrovna Morits (Moritz)
Translated by Daniel Weissbort
Additional information: Morits was born in Kiev.
I couldn’t find the original Russian version for comparison so if anyone can link it or copy/paste it in the comments it would be very much appreciated.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 