Перевод А. Блока В соседнем доме

In the house next door, the windows glow,
As evening falls, with shadows slow.
The creaking bolts in thoughtful sighs,
Invite the weary as night draws nigh.

Through iron gates that stand so still,
A distant murmur stirs the chill.
Yet on the wall, a figure waits,
Counting souls behind locked gates.

From my high perch, I hear it clear:
His voice of brass calls out to fear.
“Bow down your backs, ye tired throng,”
As gathered crowds hum sorrow's song.

They’ll enter in and scatter wide,
With burdens stacked like waves of tide.
And from those yellowed panes will rise
The laughter of those who see through lies.

They'll mock the poor who tread below,
Oblivious to their silent woe;
For in those windows’ golden light,
No thought for hearts trapped in their plight.

So here I stand with eyes that weep,
While shadows dance and secrets creep;
For every laugh that fills the air—
Is but a mask for hidden despair.