The Dream About the Leaving Train
There is one dream I have, it comes to me each night:
I travel in a train — and I am left behind.
I’ve gotten off my car, small station’s lost in snow,
I see my train to start, it’s off, it’s on the go,
I try with all my might to run — and feel: I can’t,
I cannot move in dream, but, all the same, I run.
And in the closed circle of interlacing ways
It seems: revolving Earth is moving us in space —
Rotation of the hills, rotation of the dales,
Rotation of birch-trees and poplars far-away,
Of wires, poles and rails, of bridges, tracks and lanes,
Of forward-passing trains, and of on-coming trains.
The worst of trouble is — and here is the root —
That any other train for me is no good.
I want the only one — the only one I need.
My table light is there, it trembles at high speed.
There nothing’s done by halves, there everything’s said to face,
Disputes and talks and laughs are hot as a fireplace.
I want my own train, its passion, heat and force,
I keep in mind its name, its number and its course.
It’s far, it clothed in snow, in smoke, in coal dust,
Condemned to it, I know: I need it while I last,
I’m sentenced to my train, I need it to survive,
This snow and sweet of smoke arise above my life!
I try with all my might to run — and feel: I can’t,
I cannot move in dream, but, all the same, I run,
And in the closed circle of interlacing ways
It seems: revolving Earth is moving us in space.
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