Old Man

It's dawn, sirens are wailing,  
Seven a.m.  
You that appear like Verlaine,  
Wake up old man!    

Eyes childish, angling,  
Green fire makes ash;  
Upon the neck is hanging  
A colored sash.    

He curses, mutters, mumbles  
Words lost within;  
He wants to make confession  
But first to sin.    

A disappointed worker  
A bitter one  
The eye, beat up in melee,  
Shines like the sun.    

Thus having followed Sabbath,  
He drags his feet:  
Happy privation stares  
From every street.    

At home, flying with curse words  
And white with rage,  
A harsh wife meets and screams at  
The drunken sage.  

By Osip Mandelshtam 
Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat