Mikhail Ancharov

The sedative smells of the sleeping and food,
The door-plates’ reliable gilding…
And somebody left trace of his bare foot
On floors of staircase to them leading.

From where had you come, man of these bare feet?
Insane, ragged, hungry and ailing. 
And snow, that’s falling, seems cold and swift,
And day – like a night in its reigning.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001