This was written in 1930. Soviet poets had to be cryptic. This may not have been cryptic enough…
I’ve returned to my city, with tears too well versed,
And with veins and with childhood’s glands ready to burst.
You’ve returned here – with haste you have swallowed some draughts
Of the fish oil that fuels the river’s light’s shafts!
So December day sooner acknowledge my friend,
When the yolk with the ominous tar finds a blend.
Petersburg! I am simply not ready to die:
You possess my phone number – just give it a try.
Petersburg! I retain an address in my head,
Where location still lingers of voices now dead.
On a grubby back staircase I live. In my head
Sounds the bell that is torn from my flesh, made of lead,
And I wait for dear guests as continues the night
View original post 107 more words