Vladislav Khodasevich

The hum of spring will not else loosen
My verses of the clenched words,
I’ve loved steel grating and diffusion,
Of sunk in cacophony worlds.

In the gaping of wide-open vowels
My breath is easy, fresh and free.
In throngs of consonants it grows – 
The noise of piled-up ice, for me.

I’m glad when from the tinny clouds
A fork-like arrow strikes here;
The shrill whine of a saw around
Is all that I like else to hear.

And in this life they’re twice as dear 
To me than harmony and fine –  
The cold sweat of the deathly fear,
The tremor over skin of mine,

Or dreams in which I, once entire,
Explode and fly like a dirt… 
Like mud that’s spattered by a tire,
To spheres of the alien worlds.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2000