By Joseph Brodsky

The English Poetic Translation, by Anna Polibina-Polansky

* * * ("Vecher. Razvaliny geometrii...")

An evening. Ruines of geometry.

A point left from an entire angle.

So the further, the more subjectless is are the contours.

So folks get naked, from shoulders to ankles.

So folks get stopped in getting nude and off speeled.

So the bushes hide away the rest.

So the seal of the sense is concealed,

It can be considered for the best.

So the else goes easily healed.

The Moon was shaped in Mongolia.

Senseless is the glass.

So pimpled ans shaving is mognolia,

To the cheek, it fits and so, lasts.

So the army's troop reminds a queue.

The soldiers are not meant to cry "hurah!", at all.

For the present, in order to bloom in the future due,

Yesterday is highly demanded, to grow tall.

So the monument out of statues marble,

Is meant to belong to the mild, sweet darkness.

So by the degree of despair, the man is marked

And can be told from himself. So he sparkles.

1985/tr. 2020