O city, city, o city, city,
To rush into your window in the ice!

As I was getting out of Bologoye
I wound up stuck on side tracks there,
And now in my straightforward poems
All’s empty, empty, bare, so bare.

And a soft voice, like a wild dove,
Sliding through the celestial silence of the ether
Refuses to descend to me, stays far above,
Fails to relieve my hunger and my fever.

Forgotten backroads county, wayside and wild,
All crossings closed, all movement paralyzed.
My light-filled city, the iron child,
The cold of spring, unfaithful light.