To the Artist

Whenever I’m, I see your works in greatness,
Your labors, worthy to be blessed and prayed:
The gilt of limes in autumn, that is endless,
And blue of streams, created just today.

There’s just a thought – and somnolence, right now,
Leads me into your quiet gardens’ shades,
Where I, afraid of every turn and bough,     
In full forgetfulness, seek for my former trace.

Oh, should I come under an arch enlivened
By your great hand into the holly heaven -  
To cool, at last, my so shameful heat?

There I’ll be blessed - forever and entire,
And, closing my eye-leads, blazed by fire,
Again obtain my tears’ former gift.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August, 2002