Valery Bryusov

Three women -- drunk, staggering, muddy --
Supporting each other, they go.
The belfries in murkiness shudder,
The crosses on churches tilt low.

When heard their talk, mixed and crazy,
That sounds like song, high and hoarse,
They giggle -- the coachmen, lazy,
They pass by -- the passers-by, coarse.

They, dressed into rough, dirty gowns,
Sing songs and cry out the curses...
The cloudy churches just mourn
And bow to them with the crosses.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 2000