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