Ilya Erenburg

You say to me that I am mute – 
But you’re the jealous one and loud. 
I’m not a wolf nor Paris – wood,
But life from life can’t be seized out.
Yes, I’ve been there, where dark and gray,
Like a pine forest of old stone,
Making great noise, Great City stays – 
Blue and in shade of years, grown.
There, even bliss is cheapest stuff, 
A word brings you and pain and easiness,
There, freedom calls for cry and laugh,
With its street organ under windows.
Forgive me liking this wood’s wealth, 
Being to all this suit and sufficed,
And bearing, till my last breath,
Magnificent twilight of Paris.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001