A meagre beam in a cold measure

* * *

A meagre beam in a cold measure Scatters light in the damp forest. The sorrow is like a grey bird That I carry slowly in my heart.

What shall I do with this wounded bird? The firmament has fallen silent, died; From the misty steeple Someone has taken down the bells.

And this height stands here Orphaned and soundless, Like an empty white tower, Where there is mist and quietness.

The morning with fathomless tenderness, Half real and half a dream – Unsatisfied oblivion, The misty chime of thoughts…

1911

Скудный луч холодной мерою (Мандельштам)