The Dream

In noon's heat, in a dale of Dagestan
With lead inside my breast, stirless I lay;
The deep wound still smoked on; my blood
Kept trickling drop by drop away.

On the dale's sand alone I lay. The cliffs
Crowded around in ledges steep, 
And the sun scorched their tawny tops
And scorched me -- but I slept death's sleep.

And in a dream I saw an evening feast
That in my native land with bright lights shone;
Among young women crowned with flowers, 
A merry talk concerning me went on.

But in the merry talk not joining, 
One of them sat there lost in thought, 
And in a melancholy dream
Her young soul was immersed -- God knows by what.

And of a dale in Dagestan she dreamt;
In that dale lay the corpse of one she knew;
Within his breast a smoking wound showed black, 
And blood ran in a stream that colder grew.

At Certain Age

                        

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.
White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind
Was too busy visiting one sea after another.
We did not succeed in interesting the animals.
Dogs, disappointed, expected an order.
A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.
A person seeming very close
Did not care to hear of things long past.
Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee
Ought not to be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.
It would be humilating to pay by the hour
A man with a diploma, just for listening.
Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what?
That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble,
Yet later in our place an ugly toad
Half opens its thick eylids
And one sees clearly: "That's me."