I

Setting sun on roads in icy blue.
Sweet, the slumber-colors in your heart.
From the valley, shimmering toward you,
In the snow of sunset shines a hut.
Wonder-woods sway wide on window-panes,
Magic sleighs ring in a ring. A niche
In the attic: doves. Their humming rains,
Humming out my face. And the Irtysh,
Flashing crystals on its icy deck
Trembles, half-unreal half-beguiled.
Silence-soaring cupolas protect
Blooming world: a seven-year-old child.

II

In the shining-dark, the snowed-in home
Of my childhood in Siberia's waste,
Eyes of shadows blossom in a dome —
Quicksilvery flowers, light-encased.
In extinguished corners, one after another,
Blows the moon her breath, her dazzling bands.
White as face of moon, my looming father,
Silence of the snow is on his hands.
Father cuts black bread with shining knife.
Merciful. And blue, his bearded head.
And with freshly sliced ideas rife,
I immerse in salt my father's bread.

III

Knife of mercy. Father. Smoking brand.
Childhood. Shadow pulls a violin
From the wall. And sound-flurries descend,
Snow-sounds falling on my head, thin-thin.
Silence. Father plays. Each sound, each hue —
Etchings in the air. Like in a frost
Silver slivers of your breath hang blue
Over moon-glazed space, on snowy crust.
Through a pane engulfed in icy furs
Peeps a wolf to sniff the music's flesh.
Silence. In our dovecote now occurs:
Baby-dove pecks out of eggshell, fresh.