like an aching tooth,
deep in the night, an elevator jerks
to a halt through the thin walls.
the silence racks a gun,
and here I am,
swaying in front of the screen,
like a cobra hypnotized by the flute.
gradually, I’m coming to myself,
ripping words off the green face
like scraping mussels off a rock:
the tide of inspiration has been up.
my winged soul
is still away,
it’s in the empyrean,
strolling around the rooms
of a neglected palace,
the palace of constellations,
like a baby deer lit by the blue moonlight,
wandering around a picture gallery,
where all the gray, shimmering walls
with moving lions’ heads.
(translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian)