Aleksandr Blok

There’s a morn demon. He’s of gauze and light,
The happy one – with golden hair.
Like skies, is blue his tunic’s airy flood,  
All – in a play of brilliants, fair.

But like through azures sometimes look dark nights,
Thus through his face sometimes looks something horrid,
Something dark-red – through his curls’ shining gold,
Through his soft voice – forgotten tempests’ blasts.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2002