By Georgiy Ivanov

(1930)

A Crescent rises over Earth

Slowly, with uncertainty.

Blackened branches shake,

Smells like grass and spring.

 

Appear reflected in the lake,

At the bottom growing cold,

Heavens, slightly decadent,

In a pale green burn. 

 

All in this world stays as it was.

The crescent rises, as once it rose, 

And his estate Pushkin still pawns,

Over his wife still feels jealous.

 

And nothing at all in this world corrects,

And nothing at all in this world helps fix

That wondrous and ever nebulous music

Audible only to him.