Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices

Sergey Gribov

Translated by Alex Sitnitsky

The ox’s eye was swollen by a tear,

Which grew like a mound and vexed,

Mirroring a yard, a haystack at the rear

And a crimson butt of an ax,

A light evening, so dense and dusty,

An old willow, a gold-field of brooks,

And the fences, the lilac-tree’s cluster,

And the pages of all our books.

Oh, my God, the righteous, omnipotent,

From above you see better, of course.

But you also, you also were spotted

With all celestial glory of yours.