Retribution

CHAPTER THREE

The father is in the "Walk of the Roses",*
Already fatigue without arguing,
A son of a train rushes in the cold
From his native shores…
gendarmes, rails, lights,
Jargon and sidelocks secular, –
And so, in the rays of dawn patient
Backyards Polish Russian…
Everybody is here, what happened, everything, what is,
Inflated vengeful chimera;
Copernicus himself cherishes revenge,
Bending over an empty area…
"Revenge! Revenge!"- in the cold iron
rings, like an echo, over Warsaw:
The Pan-Claus on horseback evil
Spurs bloody saber…
Here thaw: blesnet live
Sky Edge yellowness lazy,
And eyes Panna featured smeley
Your circle of caressing and flattering…
but all, in the sky, on the ground,
Still full of sorrow…
Only rail in Europe in the wet gloom
Gleaming steel honest.

Station spat; houses,
Betray Blizzard;
The bridge over the Vistula, as a prison;
Father, overwhelmed by evil disease, –
All new darling of fates;
Him in this world meager
To dream about something marvelous;
He wants to see the stone bread,
Immortality sign - on his deathbed,
Behind the dim light of a lantern
He imagined Dawn
Yours, forgetting Poland, God! –
What is it with her youth?
What is in the wind eagerly asks? –
Forgotten leaf autumn days,
Yes, dust is dry wind!
And the night comes, driving frost,
Fatigue, sleepy desires…
As the names of the streets filthy!
here, finally, "Rose Alley"!.. –
unique minute:
Hospital immersed in a dream, –
But in light of the window frame
costs, turning to someone,
Father… and son, barely breathing,
looks, not trusting eyes…
As if in a vague dream shower
His stiffened young,
And do not drive away the evil thought:
"He is still alive!.. In a strange Warsaw
With him to talk about the right,
Lawyers criticize him!..»
But still - one minute deal:
Son quickly searches gates
(Hospital already locked),
He boldly taken for the call
And part… The staircase creaks…
Tired, dirty from the road
He runs up the stairs
Without pity and without anxiety…
The candle flickers… Mr.
He barred his way
AND, peering, rumor strictly:
"You - the son of a professor?" - "Yes, a son…»
Then (since amiable mien):
"I ask you. At five he died. There…»

Father in the coffin was dry and straight.
It was a straight nose - and became an eagle.
It was this pitiful crumpled sickbed,
And in the room, alien and the close,
corpse, gathered on the parade,
Calm, yellow, dumb…
"It is nice to have a rest now", –
thought son, calm look
Looking at the open door…
(With him someone close inseparable
I looked back, where the candle flame,
Under the trend of reckless
leaning, It illuminates alarmingly
Leek yellow, shoes, narrow shoulders, –
AND, straightening, low chertit
Other shadows on the wall…
A night stands, standing in the window…)
And the thought of a son: "Where is the feast of Death?
Father's face so strangely quiet…
Where thoughts ulcers, flour wrinkles,
Passion, despair and boredom?
Il's death swept away without trace their?» –
But all tired. dead person
Today one can sleep.
gone native. only son
He is leaning over the corpse… like a robber,
He wants to carefully remove
Ring with numb hands…
(Inexperienced difficult to safely
The dead fingers unbend.)
Only kneeling
Above the Dead Man's Chest,
he saw, some shadows
We went along this face…
When a recalcitrant fingers
The ring slid in hard coffin,
Son christened father's forehead,
After reading it wanderers print,
Persecuted pó fate of the world…
He adjusted his hands, form, candles,
I looked at the shoulders to throw up
And he went, molvyv: "God be with you".

All poems of Alexander Blok