The Black Man

My friend, my friend, How sick I am. Nor do I know Whence came this sickness. Either the wind whistles Over the desolate unpeopled field, Or as September strips a copse, Alcohol strips my brain. My head waves my ears Like a bird its wings. Unendurably it looms my neck When I walk. The black man, The black, black, Black man Sits by me on the bed all night, Won't let me sleep. This black man Runs his fingers over a vile book, And, twangling above me, Like a sleepy monk over a corpse, Reads a life Of some drunken wretch, Filling my heart with longing and despair. The black man, Oh black man. "Listen, listen" - He mutters to me - The book is full of beautiful Plans and resolutions. This fellow lived His life in a land of most repulsive Thieves and charlatans. And in that land the December snow Is pure as the very devil, And the snowstorms drive Merry spinning-wheels. This man was an adventurer, Though of the highest And the best quality. Oh, he was elegant, And the poet at that, Albeit of a slight But useful gift. And some woman, Of forty or so, He called his "naughty girl," His "love." Happiness - he said - Is a quickness of hand and mind. Slow fools are always Known for being unhappy. heartaches, we know, Derive From broken, lying gestures, At thunder and tempest, At the world's coldheartedness, During times of heavy loss And when you're sad The greatest art on earth Is to seem uncomplicatedly gay. "Black man! Don't you dare! You do not live as A deep-sea diver. What's the life Of a scandalous poet to me? Please read this story To someone else." The black man Looks me straight in the eye And his eyes are filmed With blue vomit - As if he wanted to say, I'm a thief and rogue Who'd robbed a man Openly, without shame. Ah friend, my friend, How sick I am. Now do I know Whence came this sickness. Either the wind whistles Over the desolate unpeopled field, Or as September strips a copse, Alcohol strips my brain. The night is freezing Still peace at the crossroads. I am alone at the window, Expecting neither visitor nor friend. The whole plain is covered With soft quick-lime, And the trees, like riders, Assembled in our garden. Somewhere a night bird, Ill-omened, is sobbing. The wooden riders Scatter hoofbeats. And again the black Man is sitting in my chair, He lifts his top hat And, casual, takes off his cape. "Listen! listen!" - he croaks, Eyes on my face, Leaning closer and closer. I never saw Any scoundrel Suffer so stupidly, pointlessly, From insomnia. Well, I could be wrong. There is a moon tonight. What else is needed By your sleep-drunken world? Perhaps, "She" will come, With her fat thighs, In secret, and you'll read Your languid, carrion Verse to her. Ah, how I love these poets! A funny race! I always find in them A story known to my heart - How a long-haired monster Profusing sexual languor Tells of worlds To a pimply girl-student. I don't know, don't remember, In some village, Kaluga perhaps, or Maybe Ryazan, There lived a boy Of simple peasant stock, Blond-haired And angel-eyed... And he grew up, Grew up into a poet Of slight but Useful talent, And some woman, Of forty or so, He called his "naughty girl," His "love." "Black man! Most odious guest! Your fame has long resounded." I'm enraged, possessed, Amd my cane flies Straight across The bridge of his nose. The moon has died. Dawn glimmers in the window. Ah, night! What, night, what have you ruined? I stand top-hatted. No one is with me. I am alone... And the mirror is broken.