Подсолнух (Sunflower) by Leonid Martynov

1
About the house a multitude of moths
Were fluttering in an impatient round dance,
But the householder, waving them away,
Shut up the windows;
And to me, a guest chance-sent,
Opened the doors with like unwillingness.
I realized that this tea drinking at night
Was not arranged for me.

But what to do?
I entered
And sat down uninvited at the table.
The thick blackberry jam
Glared with its sugared eye,
The tartlets snorted condemnation,
The samovar gurgled, like a Tula
Police inspector, all bemedaled for effort –
As if I’d drink it all, devour it!
“She’s come!” said the artist.
And so I waited: for an angel with pursed lips
smelling of patchouli, rustling in batiste,
To flutter out, old-fashioned, to the table.

But you came –
And I remember clearly
How you came: neither devil nor angel
But a warm strong creature,
Just such an involuntary guest as I myself.
His wife?
No: that’s gossip, lies.
Bred in domestic stuffiness and gloom
As dry as any stick
He never had a wife like that to kiss!
That I knew. But could not understand
One thing: why your face should be familiar
Your eyes, your mouth, your hair
That fell across your forehead.
I exclaimed:
“I’ve seen you sometime
Although I’ve never seen you.
But all the same, I did see you today
Although today I’d never seen you!”

And again:
“I’ve seen you somewhere
Though I’ve never seen you!”
“Tea?”
“Thank you; no.”
I got up and went out
Out onto the veranda, where
The frenzied moths were swarming.
You cried:
“Come back, this minute!”
I threw wide open the door to the veranda
And into the room burst forty thousand moths
To dance in coolness:
They jostled, tumbled,
Brushing the pollen from each other’s wings –
And would have made me dizzy
If I had not been gazing in your eyes.

2
He did not intend to paint a picture
But, pulling out his youthful canvases,
Considered: could he not cut them up
For useful rags? Dully he scraped the paint;
Then neighbours called him.
On with his slippers, and he went off somewhere
Leaving the canvas on the easel,
The box of paints unfastened.
He had abandoned things exhaled
With the intoxicated breath of art,
And I – though nothing of a painter –
Felt suddenly an urge to paint.
From a bottle I poured some linseed oil,
Mixed colours
And softening in them the sharp point of a brush,
Set fearlessly to work.
It was you I sketched,
But for a body
I drew a glistening stalk,
For shoulders I drew leaves
Like drooping wings,
And only in the face did I leave likeness
In that feeble image –
Of a beautiful but captive plant
Putting out roots in the vegetable patch.
And that hoary radish grows beside you,
And turnips complain that in the beds
The soil is black: and with its simple venom
The henbane dreams of poisoning everything.
No sun: hidden behind the clouds.
And she, the gardener, comes
With wrinkled, feeble hands
To grasp that lovely face…

Here the artist rushed up crying
“Who said you could paint?”
“Go to hell!” with self-control I told him
And walked straight out of that gray dusty house.

3
“Did you spend the night in the flowerbeds?
I ask, did you sleep in the flowerbeds?
If you did what were your dreams?”

4
But not one landlady would let me in.
Crossing themselves, they slammed the door,
Curtained the windows close
With trembling hands. My gaze
And aspect were too fearful for them.
The evening came:
I gloomily spread my blanket
Between the flowerbeds in the town garden
But got no sleep. And the grass tickled
And how the crows snarled, out of the poplars!

So the night passed.
Not waiting for the dawn
Through damp gray foggy streets
I left the town.
Before my eyes
The paths redoubled, leading to the fields.

And it was dawn.
The ground grew rosy:
Beetroot were ripening in it.
I stood and breathed
All the scents rising from the pink-flushed earth.

Dawn passed. In the fields, day began.
I did not stop; I went on, breathing
The honeyed smell of midday, long sustained.
In search of something, but not finding it.

But the plants whispered fiercely “Search!”
And suddenly in the intersection
Of roads that lead on to the future years
You started up, as if from underground.

You cried:
“where did you spend the night,
Did you have breakfast?
How much worry
Your leaving caused me!
Two whole days I’ve been looking, searching for you!”

It is the end.
On the roseate field
We drink milk, eat bread –
Your warm bread
That tastes of overripe wild strawberries.

The summer earth
Warms our feet.
Wise, omniscient nature
Soothes us, wanderers.
Sunflower
Out of an alien garden,
You have come home now to your native fields!

by Леонид Николаевич Мартынов
(Leonid Nikolayevich Martynov)
(1932)
translated by J. R. Rowland

Подсолнух

1
Сонм мотыльков вокруг домовладенья
Порхал в нетерпеливом хороводе,
Но, мотыльков к себе не допуская,
Домохозяин окна затворил,
И мне, судьбой дарованному гостю,
Открыл он двери тоже неохотно,
Я понял, что ночное чаепитье
Организовано не для меня.

Я это понял.
Что же было делать?
Вошел я.
Сел к столу без приглашенья.
Густое ежевичное варенье
Таращило засахаренный глаз;
И пироги пыхтели, осуждая;
И самовар заклокотал, как тульский
Исправник, весь в медалях за усердие, —
Как будто б я все выпью, все пожру!

— Она приехала! — сказал художник.
И вот я жду: поджавший губки ангел,
Дыша пачулями, шурша батистом,
Старообразно выпорхнет к столу.
Но ты вошла…
Отчетливо я помню,
Как ты вошла — не ангел и не дьявол,
А теплое здоровое созданье,
Такой же гость невольный, как и я.

Жена ему?
Нет!
Это толки, враки,
Рожденные в домашнем затхлом мраке, —
Ему, который высох, точно посох,
Вовек не целовать такой жены!
Я это понял. Одного лишь только
Не мог понять: откуда мне знакомы
Твое лицо, твои глаза, и губы,
И волосы, упавшие на лоб?
Я закричал:
Я видел вас когда-то,
Хотя я вас и никогда не видел,
Но тем не менье видел вас сегодня,
Хотя сегодня я не видел вас!

И повторяя:
— Я вас где-то видел,
Хотя не видел…
Чаю?
Нет, спасибо! —
Я встал и вышел.
Вышел на веранду,
Где яростно метались мотыльки.

Ты закричала:
— Возвратитесь тотчас! —
Я на веранду дверь раскрыл широко,
И в комнату ворвалось сорок тысяч
Танцующих в прохладе мотыльков.
Те мотыльки толклись и кувыркались,
Пыльцу сшибая с крылышек друг другу,

И довели б до головокружения,
Когда б я не глядел в твои глаза.

2
Не собирался он писать картину,
А вынул юношеские полотна
В раздумий: нельзя /ль из. них портянки
Скроить себе? И тупо краску скреб.
Затем его окликнули соседи.
Надевши туфли, он пошел куда-то,
Оставив полотнище на мольберте
И ящик с красками не заперев.

Заманчивым дыханием искусства
Дохнули эти брошенные вещи,
И я — хотя совсем не живописец —
Вдруг ощутил стремленье рисовать.
Тут маковое масло из бутыли
Я вылил, и на нем растер я краски,
И, размягчив в нем острый хвостик кисти,
Я к творчеству бесстрашно пристзшил.
Тебя я рисовал.
Но вместо тела
Изобразил я полнокровный стебель,
А вместо плеч нарисовал я листья,
Подобные опущенным крылам.
И лишь лицо оставил я похожим
У этого бессильного подобья —
Прекрасного, но пленного растенья,
Ушедшего корнями в огород.
И хрен седой растет с тобою рядом,

И хнычут репы, что земля на грядах
Черна.. И всех своим нехитрым ядом
Перетравить мечтает белена.
И солнца нет. За облаками скрыто
Оно. И огородница подходит,
Морщинистыми, дряхлыми руками
Схватила за прекрасное лицо…
Художник тут вбежал,
Он крикнул:
Кто вам позволил рисовать?
Идите к черту! — ему я сдержанно сказал
И тотчас
Покинул этот серый, пыльный дом.

3
Вы ночевали на цветочных клумбах?
Вы ночевали на цветочных клумбах
Я спрашиваю!
Если ночевали,
Какие сны вам видеть удалось?

Покинув дом, где творчество в запрете,
Весь день метался я, ища квартиру,
Но ни одна квартирная хозяйка
Меня не допустила ночевать.
Они, крестясь, захлопывали двери
И плотно занавешивали окна
Дрожащими руками. Слишком страшен
Был вид и взгляд мой…
Наступила ночь,
И сумрачно постлал я одеяло

Меж клумб под сенью городского сада.
Но сон не брал. И травы щекотались.
И вороны рычали с тополей.
Так ночь прошла.
Рассвета не дождавшись,
По улицам сырым, туманным, серым
Я вышел за город.
В глазах двоились
Тропиночки, ведущие в поля.
И был рассвет!
Земля порозовела.
В ней зрели свеклы.
Я стоял, вдыхая
Все запахи земли порозовевшей.
Рассвет прошел.
И день настал в полях.
Я не стоял. Я шел вперед, вдыхая
Медвяный запах длящегося полдня,
Ища чего-то и не находя.

Но голоса растений властно шепчут:
«Ищи, ищи!»
И вдруг на перекрестке
Дорог, ведущих в будущие годы,
Ты появилась как из-под земли.

Ты закричала:
— Где вы ночевали?
Чем завтракали?
Сколько беспокойства
Вы причинили мне своим уходом!
Вторые сутки, как я вас ищу!

Все кончилось.
На розовой поляне
Пьем молоко, закусываем хлебом,
И пахнет перезрелой земляникой
Твой теплый хлеб…

Июльская земля
Нам греет ноги.
Ласкова к скитальцам
Всезнающая, мудрая природа.
Подсолнух!
Из чужого огорода
Вернулся ты в родимые поля!

Additional information: Леонид Николаевич Мартынов (Leonid Nikolayevich Martynov) (22 May 1905, Omsk – 21 June 1980, Moscow) was a Soviet poet, journalist and translator. Laureate of three Orders of the Red Banner of Labour (1965, 1970, 1975) and a USSR State Prize (1974).

Tula: an industrial town south of Moscow that is celebrated for its metal craftsmanship and, traditionally, the manufacture of the finest samovars.

When I looked for the original Russian version of the poem there seemed to be differing stanza layouts from different sources. So, my apologies if the version provided seems incorrect compared to others you’ve seen elsewhere. I had to hazard a guess as the translation above itself splits the poem into four sections where there are three in the original.

Born into the family of a communications technician, Martynov was unable to complete school because of the Revolution. While working at different jobs he began to publish his poetry in Siberian journals in 1921. His work as a journalist while traveling through Siberia and Turkestan resulted in a first book of essays in 1931. His first collection of poems, Stikhi I poemy (Verses and Long Poems), was published in 1939 and called little attention to itself. His work was seen as apolitical and belonging to another time.

His finest early poetry is linked to the theme of a symbolic wonderland, Lukomor’e (Cove) (1945). The title, taken from traditional Novgorod heroic poems (byliny), had been used by Pushkin in his poetic fairy tale “Ruslan and Ludmila.” Just after World War II, an infamous article by Vera Inber, an ambitious poet who was striving to make herself a literary commissar, charged that Martynov’s work was not compatible with Soviet poetry. He was systematically excluded from Soviet journals and not published at all after 1947; he became a teller of fairy tales with nothing to do, unsuited for times that wanted drumbeaters of war sentiment.

After the death of Stalin, Ilya Ehrenburg brought Martynov back to public attention. Martynov’s small green book Stixi (Verses) became the first poetic bestseller in the renaissance of poetry during the Thaw (the post-1953 period). Martynov was a marvelous, even extraordinary poet, but the era was brief and contradictory in the extreme. The new political struggle in literature gave fame to both Martynov and Boris Slutsky and then seized their popularity and tragically compelled them, two talented and honest poets, to betray Boris Pasternak with uncharacteristic denunciations and publication of Dr. Zhivago in 1957, for which their reputations suffered. A brilliant craftsman of the extended image, Martynov was the author of splendid long poems about Siberia as well as semifantastic short ones and a master of the short epic form, aphoristic miniatures, and phantasmagoria. His style was unique, as shown in “Sunflower,” included here.

Biographical information about Martynov, p.484-485, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).

Последнею усталостью устав (Filled with the final weariness…) by Boris Slutsky

Filled with the final weariness
Seized with the exhaustion before dying
His big hands limply spread
A soldier lies.
He could lie differently –
Could lie beside his wife, in his own bed,
Not tearing at the mosses drenched with blood.
But could he? Could he?
No, he could not.
The Ministry sent him his call-up notice,
Officers were with him, marched beside him.
The court-martial’s typewriters clattered in the rear.
But even without them, could he?
Hardly.
Without a call-up, he’d have gone himself.
And not from fear: from conscience, and for honor.
Weltering in his blood, the soldier lying
Has no complaint, and no thought of complaining.

by Борис Абрамович Слуцкий
(Boris Abramovich Slutsky)
translated by J. R. Rowland

Последнею усталостью устав

Последнею усталостью устав,
Предсмертным умиранием охвачен,
Большие руки вяло распластав,
Лежит солдат.
Он мог лежать иначе,
Он мог лежать с женой в своей постели,
Он мог не рвать намокший кровью мох,
Он мог…
Да мог ли? Будто? Неужели?
Нет, он не мог.
Ему военкомат повестки слал.
С ним рядом офицеры шли, шагали.
В тылу стучал машинкой трибунал.
А если б не стучал, он мог?
Едва ли.
Он без повесток, он бы сам пошел.
И не за страх — за совесть и за почесть.
Лежит солдат — в крови лежит, в большой,
А жаловаться ни на что не хочет.

Additional information: Бори́с Абра́мович Слу́цкий (Boris Slutsky) (7 May 1919 in Slovyansk, Ukraine – 23 February 1986 in Tula) was a Soviet poet of the Russian language.

Slutsky’s father was a white-collar worker and his mother a teacher. He went to school in Kharkov and from 1937 he studied in Moscow, first in law school and then at the Gorky Literary Institute. During World War II he made friends with many of the poets who were to die in the war and was himself severely wounded. Though he published some poetry in 1941, he did not publish again until after Stalin’s death in 1953. Ilya Ehrenburg wrote an article in 1956 adovicating that a collection of Slutsky’s work be published. He created a sensation by quoting many unknown poems. Discussings Slutsky’s poetry, Mikhail Svetlov said, “Of one thing I am sure – here is a poet who writes better than we all do.”

Slutsky’s first collection, Pamiat’ (Memory) (1957), immediately established his reputation as a poet. His most celebrated poems are “Kelnskaia iama” (The Pit of Cologne) and “Loshadi v okeane” (Horses in the Sea). His poems “Bog” (God) and “Khozain” (The Boss) sharply criticized Stalin even before the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956.

Slutsky’s poetry is deliberately coarse, prosaic, and always distinctive. He evoked many imitators and much ridicule, but he also taught many of the postwar generation of poets. During the scandalous attacks on Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago in 1959, Slutsky unexpectedly came out against Pasternak. It was a crucial error. Many of his admirers turned their backs on him, but, more important, he never forgave himself. When he died, he left so much poetry unpublished that almost every month for several years new poems appeared in magazines and newspapers.

Biographical information about Slutsky, p.689, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).

Январь (January) by Yunna Morits

Such blueness blazes at our window
From the nearness of the river
We want to turn aside our eyes
As on ikons or at miracles.
Such shrouds, such continents of snow,
To touch a day sets our ears ringing
And people everywhere are blue.
– And you and I, apprentices
of the enchanter, stand and freeze
In the spaces of the studio
Beside the blackboard on the wall,
With dry throats and piercing gaze.
I’ll draw and scan, in arrogance,
Each syllable, each minute’s life,
To my remoteness; and the crammed
Fairbooth, no rag to veil its panes –
And all that was irrelevance
Now shapes our fate, enters our veins,
Stands as prefix to our names.
Accomplices! Our love’s forever,
For all men, to the ruinous grave,
To the torn wound, and to the line
Unfinished: where grass springs, and stands
Above our breasts, above our hands.
Such blueness blazes at our window
From the nearness of the river.

by Юнна Петровна Мориц
(Yunna Petrovna Morits [also spelled ‘Moritz’])
Translated by J. R. Rowland

Январь

У нас такая синева
В окне — от близости реки,
Что хочется скосить зрачки,
Как на иконе, как при чуде.
У нас такие покрова
Снегов — почти материки,
Что день задень — в ушах звонки,
И всюду голубые люди,
И я да ты — ученики
У чародея. Холодея,
Стоим в просторах мастерской
У стенки с аспидной доской.
Зрачками — вглубь. В гортани — сушь.
Вкачу, вчитаю по слогам
В гордыню, в собственную глушь
Ежеминутной жизни гам,
Битком набитый балаган
Без тряпки жалкой на окне.
И все, что прежде было вне,
Теперь судьбу слагает нам,
Родным составом входит в кровь,
Приставкой к личным именам.
Сообщники! У нас-любовь
Ко всем грядущим временам,
Ко всем — до гибельного рва,
До рваной раны, до строки
Оборванной, где прет трава
Поверх груди, поверх руки!
У нас такая синева
В окне от близости реки.

Additional information: Yunna Petrovna Morits (Moritz) is a Soviet and Russian poet, poetry translator and activist. She was born 2 June 1937 in Kiev, USSR (present day Kyiv, Ukraine) into a Jewish family. Her father Pinchas Moritz, was imprisoned under Stalin, she suffered from tuberculosis in her childhood and spent years of hardship in the Urals during World War II.

She has been founding member of several liberal organizations of artistic intelligentia, including the Russian section of International PEN. She is a member of Russian PEN Executive Committee and its Human Rights Commission. She has been awarded several prestigious prizes, including Andrei Sakharov Prize For Writer’s Civic Courage.

After 2014 Morits became a supporter of the Russian occupation of Donbass and Crimea. Some of her recent poetry conveys anti-Ukrainian and anti-Western sentiments, and her invective at perceived anti-Russian campaign by the West.

Moritz was first published in 1954, and her first collection of poetry, Razgovor o schast’e (Conversation About Happiness), came out in 1957. She completed studies at the Gorky Literary Institute in 1961 and, in addition to writing her own poetry, has translated both Hebrew and Lithuanian works. In 1954, when she was not yet eighteen, she announced uncautiously to fellow students in Moscow, including the compiler of this anthology, that “the Revolution has croaked.” She was always then and continues to be rather harsh and uncompromising. Though she may have lost friends, who were unable to withstand her categorical judgements, she has never lost her conscience. A mercilessness is sometimes felt in her poetry – as in the lines “War upon you! Plague upon you! / Butcher…” from the poem in honor of the Georgian poet Titian Tabidze, who was killed in Stalin’s torture chambers. This poem caused a storm of protest when it was published in the journal lunost’ (Youth) in 1961.

Moritz is a masterful poet; where she reaches into her own pain, she does more than just touch us – she conquers. Yet if her adult verse is dominated by dark tones, then her poetry for young people is full of joy of the open-air market. It is as if Moritz does not deem adults worthy of joy and must give it all to children.

Biographical information about Moritz, p.932, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc.

Yunna Morits born in Kiev. Her first collection of poetry, Talk of Happiness, was published in 1957. In 1964 she published a collection of translations of the Jewish poet M. Toif. With Joseph Brodsky, she was a particular favourite of Akhmatova’s. She has had a hard life: she suffered from tuberculosis, and her husband, a literary critic, committed suicide at the time of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. Though regarded by many writers as one of the finest women poets in Russia today, Morits is very little published now, and is scarcely known abroad. She has been much influenced by Pasternak and, like him and Zabolotsky, has an animistic vision of nature. Her powerful, atmospheric poems about the Far North or the South, severe, utterly serious, with intimations of pain, of loss, of separation, are darkly moving. Her verses stir with the slow rhythm of nature. She is a poet of rooted attachments, measuring her love against the forces of nature. She is drawn to those men – hunters, settlers, fishermen – whose business it is to live and contend with these forces. The intensity of her work, its concrete, weighted depiction of the drama of the spiritual life as it is reflected or as it unfolds in nature, places her in the forefront of contemporary Russian poetry.

Biographical information about Moritz, p.241, ‘Post-War Russian Poetry’ (1974), edited by Daniel Weissbort , published by Penguin Books Ltd.

Осень (Autumn) by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Within me is an autumn season.

There is transparency and coolness

Sadness, but not desolation,

And I am humble, full of goodness.

.

And if sometimes I storm aloud

Then I storm, to shed my leaves:

And the thought comes, simply, sadly,

That to storm is not what is needed.

.

The main thing is to learn to see

Myself and the world of toil and torment

In autumnal nakedness

When you and the world become transparent.

.

Insight is the child of silence.

No matter if we make no tumult:

We must calmly shed all noise

In the name of the new leaves.

.

Something, certainly, has happened:

Only on silence I rely

Where the leaves, piling on each other,

Are silently becoming soil.

.

And you see all, as from some height,

When you dare cast your leaves in time

And inner autumn, without passion,

Touches your brow with airy fingers.

.

.

by Евгений Александрович Евтушенко

Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko

(1965)

translation by J R Rowland

Alexei Simonov, the son of the poet Konstantin Simonov, recites the poem.

Beneath is the original version the poem in Cyrillic.

.

Осень

Внутри меня осенняя пора.

Внутри меня прозрачно прохладно,

и мне печально и, но не безотрадно,

и полон я смиренья и добра.

.

А если я бушую иногда.

то это я бушую, облетая,

и мысль приходит, грустная, простая,

что бушевать – не главная нужда.

.

А главная нужда – чтоб удалось

себя и мир борьбы и потрясений

увидеть в обнаженности осенней,

когда и ты и мир видны насквозь.

.

Прозренья – это дети тишины.

Не страшно, если шумно не бушуем.

Спокойно сбросить все, что было шумом,

во имя новых листьев мы должны.

.

Случилось что-то, видимо, со мной,

и лишь на тишину я полагаюсь,

где листья, друг на друга налагаясь,

неслышимо становятся землей.

.

И видишь все, как с некой высоты,

когда сумеешь к сроку листья сбросить,

когда бесстрастно внутренняя осень

кладет на лоб воздушные персты.

Водосточные трубы (Downpipes) by Novella Nikolayevna Matveyeva

Evening rain

Through the downpipes

Damp walls

Green mould and moss.

Ah, those pipes –

With their round mouths

They gossip to strangers

Their houses’ secrets.

.

Downpipes

Your secrets give me no pleasure,

Rusty pipes

Stop telling tales –

I don’t know you

I don’t want your secrets

Knowing secrets

It’s hard to dream dreams, or to love.

.

Yes, I believe

That behind this door

Or that window

There’s injustice, and loss, and deceit,

I believe you!

But somehow I don’t believe

And smile

At these stone-built houses.

.

I believe in hope

Even if it seems hopeless

I believe, even,

In a vain, quite impossible dream –

I see the beautiful town

In white mist

In dark evening rain.

.

Poor downpipes

You’re old –

All your mould

Is just the first bloom on your lips.

You’re still old:

But we have grown young

Although we have known

The oldest pain.

.

Evening rain

Through the downpipes.

Damp walls

Green mould and moss.

Ah, those pipes –

Making round mouths

They gossip to strangers

Their houses’ secrets.

.

.

By Новелла Николаевна Матвеева

(Novella Nikolayevna Matveyeva)

(1965)

Translated by J. R. Rowland

A performance of the piece by Novella Matveyeva (with repetition of certain lines).

Below is the original Russian Cyrillic version of the poem.

Водосточные трубы

Дождь, дождь вечерний сквозь водосточные трубы.
Мокрые стены, зеленая плесень да мох...
Ах, эти трубы! Сделали трубочкой губы,
Чтобы прохожим выболтать тайны домов.

Трубы вы, трубы, - я вашим тайнам не рада.
Ржавые трубы, вы бросьте про тайны трубить!
Я вас не знаю, мне ваших секретов не надо:
Зная секреты, трудно мечтать и любить.

Верю, ах, верю тому, что за этою дверью
И в том окошке измена, обида, обман...
Верю, ах, верю! - но почему-то...не верю.
И улыбаюсь каменным этим домам.

Верю надежде, даже как будто напрасной,
Даже напрасной, совсем невозможной мечте...
Вижу я город, вижу я город прекрасный
В белом тумане, в черном вечернем дожде.

Трубы вы, трубы, - Бедные! - Вы еще стары.
Вся ваша плесень - лишь первый пушок над губой.
Вы еще стары, а мы уже юными стали,
Хоть мы узнали самую старую боль.

...Дождь, дождь вечерний сквозь водосточные трубы;
Мокрые стены, зеленая плесень да мох...
Ах, эти трубы! Сделали трубочкой губы,
Чтобы прохожим выболтать тайны домов.