Old Man

It's dawn, sirens are wailing, 
Seven a.m. 
You that appear like Verlen, 
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 
https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat