The Ghost

They scrape – the hanging lanterns’ balls,
Which had been lighted so early.
The snow flakes, in their by-falls,
Shine brighter and more festive-fairly.

And, speeding forth their even race,
As if well-feeling their chase own,
The horses run through falling flakes
Under the blue net of the snow.

And Cossack, dressed with sewn gold,
Behind the sleigh, stands like a stone,
And the tsar strangely looks at all
With his eyes, empty ones and shone.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August 14, 2004
Corrected May-June 2008