Mikhail Lvov

As if behind this century I’ve to ride on,
I always felt it’s touching breath, the same,
I slept and froze on its rural iron
And burned myself by its consuming flame.

With it, I knew and thunderstorms and silence,
And from this age I – not my eyes nor heart -
Like hand from iron in the frosty violence,
Can’t tear away without leaving blood. 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, July, 2001