Stranger A. A. Blok

In evenings over tiny restaurants
Hot air is as wild as deaf.
And ruling over drunkens' shouts
There is a spring and noxious breath.

And far above the dust of alleyways,
Above the boredom of country yards,
There's pretzel baked as little gold plate
And childish cry which strong and hard.

And every night, behind the barriers,
As always basting their pots,
Among the ditches walk with ladies
The proven wits talking a lot.

Oarlocks creak over lake eyecatching
And female screech sounds so tensed,
And in the sky, got used to everything
The disk grins making no sense.

And every night my friend, the only
's reflected in my cluttered glass
And by the moisture tart and holy
Like me, is humbled and is stunned.

And close to me at the next tables
A sleepy footmen're sticking out,
And with the rabbit eyes drunk-labelled
“In vino veritas!” cry loud.

And every night, at time appointed
(Or is it me just dreaming on?)
A girl’s slim stature, in silks captured,
In foggy window's moving on.

And slowly passing between drunkens,
Without satellites, alone,
Breathing by mists and cryptic perfumes
She sits by window waiting none.

And tell and whisper ancient tragedies
Her supple and elastic silks,
And hat with mourning, sorrow feathers,
And narrow hand with lot of rings.

I'm chained by strange and weird proximity,
And watching far beyond dark veil
I see enchanted beach deliberately
And the charmed distance by heart feel.

Deaf secrets are entrusted to me
And someone's sun is handed too.
And all soul's bends which I love truly
Are pierced by wine which's tart and blue.

And ostrich feathers're bowed softly
In my brain. And i'm pretty sure
That dark blue eyes so deep and godly
Are blooming on the farthest shore.

There's treasure in my soul. It's owsome.
And key I keep. This key is mine!
Yes, you are right, the drunken monster!
I know that the truth's in wine.