We have nothing, dear Lord.
Nothing has come to us,
Just this spare winter light.
Can we see our faces
There—still-wet, blurred-white
Pigment, as if, risen
From this our earth-prison,
Awaiting judgment’s word?
From the millstones of heaven
Snow-silence spills and spills.
Why must the shallow cup
Of this vale become so full?
Translated from the Russian by Philip Metres
All translated work in this issue is supported by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.