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Mikhail Kuzmin
The Weeks Are Becomig...
1916
The weeks are becoming more lazy and mingling,
The lightest flash is delayed by sad thoughts,
But a heart is praying, a heart is building:
It’s not a coffin – a house it plots.
The carpenter, gaily, will build here a tower,
>From not cold granite, but from shining wood,
Tho’ we be not sure that we have a power:
It’s sure for us and it understood.
It’s always in a hurry; it’s always in thunders,
And we like the dead: lost of thoughts and of dreams…
But once, we will wake up before the wonder:
Tho’ we were sleeping, the house exists.
But what is it, Father? A lethal syndrome?
The hand is pressed to a heart and hold…
You, builder, hadn’t finished the roof of my home:
The worshipped finial isn’t installed!
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2000
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