By Joseph Brodsky

The English Poetic Renditions, by Anna Polibina-Polansky

* * *

I once entered instead a wild beast, into a cell.

I burned up my nick name and my term with a nail,drown.

At a ditch of the jail.

Of a gambling tough, at a seashore, I felt the smell;

I had lunches with one never knows whom, with a frock at my back; I inhaled

Icy avalanches, from a peak, watching a half of the world.

Twice I was cut up at two, and thrice I got drown.

So I left the country that had fed me up, all ruined and also up twirled;

Those ones who forgot of me, may comprise a town.

I roved there at the fields that yet recall the gunn's wailing;

I put up at myself, all that comes to fashion anew.

I did sow off the dusty ears and the seeds, nightly and daily;

I did not drink only dry water; the rest, to my throat, was due.

I let into my dreams, the steel pupil of guards about;

I ate up the bread of the exile, leaving no leftovers behind  me.

So I allowed to my throat, all sounds except for shouts;

I crept up just to whisper; I'm forty, the lot gets no kinder.

What can I say of this life that, to be that long, has turned?

I am unanimous only with woes and with grieves unending.

But until my mouth is tucked with the clay that burns,

It will give out just gratitude, so full and unbending.

Tr. in 2000-2010