Mikhail Kuzmin

I see: at the window sited,
Mother declines to her child,
And trying to catch his feet idly,
He rose them, putting aside.
His day is the long one and golden,
His nights – like without an end…
And a year – like a wonderful model,
Of the future long years’ train. 
With a charm, from the little cats loaned,
He smiles through his sleeping, content …  
A mother is always Madonna,
A child – always blessed as a saint!
They’ll later come here from background --        
His passion, his fervor and toil,
And where, in the world, might be found,
The word, helping him not to fall?
The old and a child are atoned 
With wisdom, but not – an adult:             
They live in a light’s sacred zone,
The others – just see their light. 
But put in disorderliness earthen,
Be sure: through your passions and pleas,  
You’ll see – we are children of Heaven
By His ever merciful knees.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November, 2000