The Earth

Spring bursts violently into Moscow houses. Moths flutter about crawl on summer hats, and furs hide secretly. Pots of wallflowers and stock stand, in the window, just, of wooden second storeys, the rooms breathe liberty, the smell of attics is dust. The street is friends with the bleary glass, and white night and sunset at one, by the river, pass. In the passage you’ll know what’s going on below and April’s casual flow of words with drops of thaw. It’s a thousand stories veiled in a human sadness, and twilight along the fence grows chill with the tale. Outside, or snug at home the same fire and hesitation: everywhere air’s unsure. The same cut willow twigs, the same white swell of buds, at crossroads, windows above, in streets, and workshop-doors. Then why does the far horizon weep in mist, and the soil smell bitter? After all, it’s my calling, surely, to see no distance is lonely, and past the town boundary, to see that earth doesn’t suffer. That’s why in early spring we meet, my friends and I, and our evenings are – farewell documents, our gatherings are – testaments, so the secret stream of suffering may warm the cold of life.