St. Petersburg

I have seen Joseph Brodsky on a corner of old Leningrad
looking with faded eyes the numbed Neva dejectedand shabby as if he wanted to return to a distant boundary
beneath a pale winter sun.
A group of youngsters pass by his side with a portable radio
at full volume
under his feet - moving - creak the drains obstructed by a cover of hard snow
A gust of wind bends the masts of a concealed brigantine.
It moves unsteadily among the ice fragments
The straits of the Eastern Baltic are frozen between the islands
and the fog baffles and mars the wanderer’s memory without a
fixed domicile
The sailors after a long voyage celebrate their deeds with vodka and beer
The homes chimney lets off a dense cloud of smoke
Only the fire melt the arrogance of this winter!
The girls of the bar laugh and raise their brimful glasses of anise
A young argonaut loses his temper and roams drunk past the tables.
He fantasizes the women as naked nymphs in the middle of the forest
A dark room expects me tonight:
In long hours of insomnia
your blond locks I will be missing
in the enemy’s land which I once loved with innocence.
I have seen Joseph Brodsky once again this morning
on a corner of old Leningrad
melancholic and dirty as if he wanted to return to a distant certainty
beneath a pale winter sun



(Translation: Emma Seljeflot)