Eugene Dubnov(And Friends)
And Looking Up Through the Window
To the memory of Ilya Rubin
And looking up through the window, with tea, on a morning in March,
You feel yourself wondering about at life and its strangeness:
The way the twin twigs of the sharply-etched trees intertwine,
The way the blue eyes of the clouds are changing and laughing.
And with the same sense of a mildly disquieting surprise,
Seeming like something, seeming a diffident happiness,
You recall in the window the tender warm weight of last night,
The weak little-finger no use to a harpist, and transient tears -
And opening then a forgotten envelope, discover
The draft of a poem which no-one will write.
Translated by Eugene Dubnovand Peter Porter
Page(s) 64
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