From a frost-chilled
line of poetry
my anguish will drop
like a ripe berry.
Rosehip juice will dye
fine crystals of snow –
and a stranger will smile
on his lonely way.
Blending dirty sweat
with the purity of a tear,
he will carefully collect
the tinted crystals.
He sucks tart sweetness,
this purple honey,
and his dried mouth
twists in happiness.
by Варлам Тихонович Шаламов (Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov)
(1954)
translated by Robert Chandler
Advertisements
