And I was alive in the blizzard of the blossoming pear
Myself I stood in the storm of the bird-cherry tree.
It was all leaflike and starshower, unerring, self-shattering
And it was all aimed at me.
We shall meet again, in Petersburg, as though we had buried the sun there, and then we shall pronounce for the first time the blessed word with no meaning. In the Soviet night, in the velvet dark, in the black velvet Void, the loved eyes of blessed women are still singing, flowers are blooming that will never die.
The capital haunches like a wild cat, a patrol is stationed on the bridge, a single car rushes past in the dark, snarling, hooting like a cuckoo. For this night I need no pass. I’m not afraid of the sentries. I will pray in the Soviet night for the blessed word with no meaning.
A rustling, as in a theater, and a girl suddenly crying out, and the arms of Cypris are weighed down with roses that will never fall. For something to do we warm ourselves at a bonfire, maybe the ages will die away and the loved hands of blessed women will brush the light ashes together.
Somewhere audiences of red flowers exist, and the fat sofas of the loges, and a clockwork officer looking down on the world. Never mind if our candles go out in the velvet, in the black Void. The bowed shoulders of the blessed women are still singing. You’ll never notice the night’s sun.
Think of Mandelstam, think of Pasternak, Chaplin, Dovzhenko, Mizoguchi, and you’ll realise what tremendous emotional power is carried by these exalted figures who soar above the earth, in whom the artist appears not just as an explorer of life, but as one who creates great spiritual treasures and that special beauty which is subject only to poetry. Such an artist can discern the lines of the poetic design of being. He is capable of going beyond the limitations of coherent logic, and conveying the deep complexity and truth of the impalpable connections and hidden phenomena of life.