From: ibshambat@gmail.com   
      
   It's dawn, sirens are wailing,   
   Seven a.m.   
   You that appear like Verlaine,   
   Wake up old man!   
      
   Eyes childish, angling,   
   Green fire makes ash;   
   Upon the neck is hanging   
   A colored sash.   
      
   He curses, mutters, mumbles   
   Words lost within;   
   He wants to make confession   
   But first to sin.   
      
   A disappointed worker   
   A bitter one   
   The eye, beat up in melee,   
   Shines like the sun.   
      
   Thus having followed Sabbath,   
   He drags his feet:   
   Happy privation stares   
   From every street.   
      
   At home, flying with curse words   
   And white with rage,   
   A harsh wife meets and screams at   
   The drunken sage.   
      
   By Osip Mandelshtam   
   Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)