We shall meet again, in Petersburg,

as though we had buried the sun there,

and then we shall pronounce for the first time

the blessed word with no meaning.

In the Soviet night, in the velvet dark,

in the black velvet Void, the loved eyes

of the blessed women are still singing,

flowers are blooming that will never die.

The capital hunches like a wild cat,

a patrol is stationed on the bridge,

a single car rushes past in the dark,

snarling, hooting like a cuckoo.

For this night I need no pass.

I’m not afraid of the sentries.

I will pray in the Soviet night

for the blessed word with no meaning.

A rustling, as in a theater,

and a girl suddenly crying out,

and the arms of Cypris are weighed down

with roses that will never fall.

For something to do we warm ourselves at a bonfire,

maybe the ages will die away

and the loved hands of the blessed women

will brush the light ashes together.

Somewhere audiences of red flowers exist,

and the fat sofas of the loges,

and a clockwork officer

looking down on the world.

Never mind if our candles go out

in the velvet, in the black Void. The bowed shoulders

of the blessed women are still singing.

You’ll never notice the night’s sun.

- Osip Mandelstam

November, 1920