On certain nights as soon as I lie down

my bed starts drifting into Russia,

and presently I’m led to a ravine,

to a ravine led to be killed.

I wake—and in the darkness, from a chair

where watch and matches lie,

into my eyes, like a gun’s steadfast muzzle,

the glowing dial stares.

With both hands shielding breast and neck—

now any instant it will blast!—

I dare not turn my gaze away

from that disk of dull fire.

The watch’s ticking comes in contact

with frozen consciousness;

the fortunate protection

of my exile I repossess.

But how you would have wished, my heart,

that thus it all had really been:

Russia, the stars, the night of execution

and full of racemosas the ravine!