Paul Klee's Boat
Soon it will be winter and soon
a nightingale with a bandaged throat,
a plum tree in bloom, and a white
hill pushed up against the door.
Illness arrives like Mozart,
sits down at the black piano
and its voice touches with a single note.
I see January, a blockade,
you're sketching Paul Klee's boat,
big on petite.
It sails along, the fool, not knowing —
can't brush the wave from its eyelash.
Somewhere a shutter bangs shut,
and you bend toward the sketch.
Mozart creates like a god!
And the two of us, childless.
We'd be husband and wife,
together forever it seemed.
But burned by Greeks and barbarians
we fled, leaving no trace.
translated by the Russian by