sand hills, piny.

sand hills, piny.
It's wet in autumn and cloudy in spring.
Here the sea flutters ruffles in the wind
their colorless, yes from neighboring dachas
sometimes you hear a baby crying,
then Lemeshev will screech from under a bad needle.

Wormwood on the shallows and reed rot.
Take off your linen to the picket fence
single mother. The creak of oarlocks is heard:
then nature's stepson, gloomy finn,
swims to retrieve its seine from the depths,
but this net is empty and twisted.

Here the seagull will drop, a cormorant will flash there.
That aluminum airplane,
more appropriate among the clouds, than a bird,
tends to the north, where the Swede beats his thumbs,
like a sponge, absorbing gray,
and fresh air is not burdened.

Here the horizon is given features
deserted forts.
Here is the faded sail of a lonely yacht,
drawing a transparent azure in the distance,
you will not seem like a pet of storms,
but - the swampy mouth of the Lakhta.

And the eye, accustomed to shrinking bodies
on distance, another limit
here it gets - where in general about the body
speech does not come, where loss is not a pity:
then what a great distance suggests
loss of sight, what kind of loss.

When I die, let me here
will postpone. I harm anyone
I will not cause, in the sand of the coastal lying.
Affectionate hugs, tight claws
equal to the one who fled cannot find more tender,
more obscure and sinless bed.

1974

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Joseph Brodsky
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