smiles, abandoned after, –
undisguised of our years,
but once a year a silent voice
shout softly - write,
through the bitter cold at times,
still living, hurry.
You go back in the fall,
the river rumbles after, vosled,
flickering yellow front door
and in them the steps of past years.
Upstairs unstable stairs,
call and after silence,
enter the apartment, this night
you will see the river from the window.
You will understand, may be, for a moment,
thick curtain fumbling,
in the darkness great aspiration
carry yourself somewhere,
where two hundred years, not tired,
everyone cries the oceanid choir,
for all bridges over the islands,
for their Vasilievsky granite,
and in front of this wall
cut yourself off on a cry
and turn your back to the window,
and revive for a while.
ABOUT, Petersburg, mid century
all as if long gone,
but, illuminating the whistle of the wind,
about, Petersburg, my window
burns for four nights,
four years says,
in chapter thirteen burns.
ABOUT, Petersburg, your pockets
and the whiteness of your cuffs,
novels in letters are not novels,
but only in the signature plot,
but only the graveyard level
with the river on the Wolf Hump,
but only winter dating
four times as much to you,
to an impoverished family
looking, shine until the morning
and Emperor Peter.
Winter pumps traffic lights
empty wings blizzard,
from the Transfiguration Cathedral
blowing a bell sound.
And hasty figures
mumble - Lord, sorry,
and in a skidded alley
there is a brilliant taxi,