Reddish-white nights

Here's a poem about St. Petersburg, Russia. I translated it from the Yiddish.

A White Night
Yisroel Nekrasov

Red evening drags quietly
till the dawn.
The milk, sticky, whitish,
drips on.
After the last streetcar,
The city frozen,
Maybe one can restart
What was gone.
No: again it's far
away, a space unfilled.
A girl stops a car
for a hundred-ruble bill.

No comments:

Post a Comment