Mikhail Kuzmin

Through the rising tea’s steam I see Fujiyama – 
The golden mount in the yellow skies,
How could be nature by a saucer summoned!
But the gentle ripples brought here a new upraise.
Look: the gossamers of the silver clouds 
Are pierced by a sun the size of an ant’s eyes,
The black tealeaves – the birds or fishes – mount         
Lines on the azure’s quivering topaz! 
The world of spring will be contained in a small one:
The horn will sound and the almonds – smell,
The whole bay, tho’ be it twice as wide done,
Will be confined by the porcelain rim as well.
But a branch of involuntary mimosa
Cleaving the sky, across it gently lies:
So on the pages of reflective prose
A loving verse will sometimes shine at us.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November, 2000