It is an enchanted night.
The moon quivers in my glass, yellow and full.
I dip my finger in my glass.
Then I dip my arm up to the elbow in my glass.
Then I dip my arm up to the shoulder in my glass.
The vodka is as cold as ice.
At the bottom of the glass there is a large stone slab.
There are also dead leaves and black roots.
There is also a ruptured rubber boot.
At the bottom of the glass there is also a rusty stove.
I dip my head in the glass.
The vodka is as cold as ice.
I open my eyes inside the glass.
Inside the glass I can see even without my spectacles.
I say: "All is dream and harmony".
The stone slab is white veined with red.
Now I see the monster.
Now I hear it purring softly, like a cat.
I see its blue legs.
I see its terrible tail poking from beneath the stone slab.
By the stone slab flows a limpid stream.
It purls crystalline over the pebbles.
Around it the grass is eternally green.
In the grass grow delicate flowers.
In the stream swim children as small as dolls.
They swim with amazingly swift movements.
They swim clothed in gaily-coloured dresses and shirts and short trousers.
They are the little angels of the glass.
The little angels of the glass do not bite and do no harm to anybody.
I feel like puking for pity, I feel like puking for sadness.
I feel like puking when I think how I might swallow a little angel of the glass.
I feel like weeping at the thought that he would, all of a sudden, be very lonely.
Let me weep at the thought that he would weep all night sobbing inside me.
Let me weep at the thought that he might sing nursery-school songs inside me.
He might sing, with a reedy voice, "Spring's a-coming, spring's a-coming!"
My fingernails digging into the monster's back, I descend to the bottom of the glass.
There is a stone slab veined red down there.
Now I'm stretching out on the stone slab that is veined red.
In the distance, within the glass, a dog is barking.
It is autumn.
It is the day of the eclipse.
The moon, yellow and full, quivers in the glass.
Through a shard of candle-smoked glass, I see a black blowfly passing above a light bulb.
My fingernails digging into the monster's back, I drag its head from beneath the slab.
Its terrible back snakes like a train through the mountains.
With my fingernails I drag the monster's locomotive from beneath the slab.
The little angels of the glass hold hands and daintily dance in a circle.
The little angels of the glass are singing and dancing around us.
"All is dream and harmony".
The monster has one mother's eye and one father's eye.
In the glass I can see well even without my spectacles.
I read in the mother's eye: "Child, when are you going to learn some sense?"
I read in the father's eye: "Child, when are you going to learn some sense?"
The glass tightens like an iron band around my forehead.
It hurts.
My head thuds against the walls: one, two, one, two.
The little angel of the glass weeps sobbing from the pain.
The little angel of the glass sings inside me with a reedy voice: "Spring's a-coming, spring's a-coming!"
"All is dream and harmony".

Translation: 2007, Alistair Ian Blyth