November the 2nd

For seven days and seven nights Moscow thrashedAbout in the flames, in a daze. But the crude medicBled her—and, energy spent, towards the morningOf the eighth day she regained consciousness. PeopleCrawled out from under the stone cellarsOnto the streets. So, having waited out the storm,In the back yard, the rats parade in a wary, ropelike rowToward the broad puddle, and scatter awayWhen from a nearby roof the last drop of rainRolls down onto the pavement stone and explodes. . . .Towards midday, small gangs begin to gather.They ogle the gaping holes in the walls of the houses,The demolished tops of towers; in silence,Crowding around the smoldering ruins,Counting the traces of the bullets that glancedOf the walls, lines trailing like long tailsAway from the food stalls. Rolls of barbed wire hungAbove the streets. Broken glass crackledUnderfoot. November's unwelcoming sunGazed down with its jaundiced eyeAt the women suddenly grown oldAnd the men now unshaven. And thisMorning smelled not of blood but bitter bile.In the meantime, from one end of town to the other,From Presnenskaya Gate to the Rogozhskaya,And from Balguch to Lefortovo, people, stumbling,Elbowing each other on the sidewalks, were headingOf to discover: their relatives, friends, dear ones,Were they alive or dead? Others carried underarmTheir meager provisions tied up in knotted rag sacks:Just so, in years past, a pious Muscovite wouldVisit the cemetery at Eastertime—to consumeA dyed red egg on the grave of his brother or godfather. . . .

On that day, likewise, I also set out to visit my friends.And learned, they are alive, in one piece, children at home—What else could one desire? I trudged home.Along the alleyways, the wind, a passing guest, Chased the arid dust, cigarette butts, wood shavings.Some five houses away from my house,By force of habit, I glanced into the basement,Through a dim little window, where lives my friendThe carpenter. He was preoccupied withAn unusual order. On his workbench, upside down,Lay an elongated, narrow boxWith sloping sides. With a broad brush,The carpenter was finishing the box and the boardsGrew crimson in its wake. My acquaintanceWas finishing the job; a red coffin.I knocked on the window. He turned around.And, removing my hat, I took a deep bowBefore Pyotr Ivanych, before his work, the coffin,And before the earth entire, and the sky, whose azureWas reflected in the glass window. And the carpenterAlso nodded to me, shrugged his shoulders,And pointed to the coffin. And I departed.

And back in our yard, encircling a basketWith a little wicker window, children played,Yelling, shoving, and crowding each other.Through the sparse, broken spokes of wickerWere visible white feathers. And then—With an extended creak, the window swung openAnd a pair of doves, splashing their wings,Whirled up and swirled in circles: higher, higher,Above the silent Plyushchikha, above the river. . . .First falling, then again rising, the birdsDipped and dove, bobbing as the white vessels doIn the seascape's distance. In their wake, the children,Whistling, clapped their hands. . . . Only one,A stocky, four-year-old fellow wearing a hat with earflaps,Sat down on a rock, spread his arms wideAnd, gazing upward, smiled silently.But, looking into his eyes, I understoodThat he was smiling only to himself,At that incomprehensible thought that to be bornUnder this bulging, still browless forehead,Listening inside himself to the beating of his heart,Life's ebb and flow, growth. . . . Amidst Moscow,Suffering, torn to pieces and low fallen, Like a miniature idol, he sat, in his indifference,With his senseless, saintly smile.And I bowed before the boy also.

                                        At home,I drank some tea, set my papers in orderThat had collected over the past week on the table,And got down to work. But, for the first time in my life,Neither "Mozart and Salieri" nor...