'The Stranger'
By Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
At eve, above the restaurants,
The sultry airβs a savage burden,
And the breath of Springβs corruption,
Holds the sound of drunken bedlam.
Far off, oβer the dusty streetβs
Tedious suburban houses,
The bakerβs gilt sign faintly glitters,
Thereβs the noise of children, crying.
And every night, beyond the toll,
The polished wits, with their bowlers
Tipped at a rakish angle, stroll
In the hollows, with their lovers.
On the lake, the oars creak loudly,
As a woman shrieks somewhere;
While long-inured, quite mindlessly,
The moonβs pale orb leers through the air,
And every night my only friend
Mirrored, in this glass of mine,
Mute like myself, is stunned, once more,
By the sour mysterious wine,
While, nearby, waiters half-asleep
Round the neighbouring tables pass;
And drunks, with their rabbit eyes,
Cry: βIn vino, veritas!β
Each night, at the appointed hour,
(Is it in dream I view that same?)
The form of a girl, clothed in silk,
Passes across the misted pane,
Moves, slowly, among the drunks,
And then, forever on her own,
Sits down, beside the window-glass
Scattering mist, and rich perfume.
Her hat, where a dark feather clings,
Her stiff brocaded draperies,
Her slender hand, decked out with rings,
Breathe the air of ancient stories.
Bewitched by mysterious nearness,
I gaze through a shadowy veil,
And see an enchanted shoreline,
Far-off, magical, dim and pale.
Hidden secrets are granted me,
Someoneβs sun is for me to hold,
Since the sour wine has entered
Int the labyrinth of my soul.
And those soft ostrich plumes
Nodding gently in my brain,
And fathomless blue eyes, flower
In some far-off domain.
A treasureβs buried in my soul,
The sole key to it is mine!
Youβre right, you drunken fools!
I know: βThereβs truth in wine.β
