Ravil Bukharayev
Reading Nekrasov
It got dark at midday, in the sky and in me.
A little rain fell on my open book.
The smoothed paws of the spring lindens
lay like shadows on the ground.
Moving positions the links
of customary imaginations and worries broke,
a tattered petal of the sweetbriar
fell in the dark whirlpool of inspiration.But this is all unclear
I will forget everything:
the movement of the shadows, the sweetbriar, the lindens,
the slow squeaks of the wet bench,
the round edges of the clouds,
the pages illuminated by rays
and the white lines on the asphalt,
but not the poems on civil themes,
the poems of civil despair.
Translated by Richard McKane
Page(s) 65
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