By Alexander Blok
Translation by
Dasha Bulatova
I rose and thrice raised my arms.
Through the air rushed
morning’s first buoyant sounds,
ruby shrouding the sky.
I saw perhaps a woman stand
and pray, veiled in her vestry,
throwing out seeds with her pink hand
To feed obedient pigeons.
Somewhere high up they whiten,
lighten, spool into a thread
and their wings gild
the murky rooftops.
Above the echoed gold of houses,
aloft in the window,
all at once I see a huge sphere.
Gliding through the red hush.
- 1903