Winked to the birdcherry, gulped amid tears,

Splashed over carriages’ varnish, trees’ tremble.

Full moon. The musicians are picking their way

To the theatre. More and more people assemble.

Puddles on stone. Like a throat overfilled

With tears are the roses, deep with wet scalding

Diamonds. Showers of gladness thrill,

Eyelashes, stormclouds, and roses enfolding.

The moon for the first time is casting in plaster

An epic poem uncast till today:

The cordons, the flutter of dresses, the speaker

And people enraptured and carried away.

Whose is the heart whose whole blood shot to glory

Drained from the cheeks? We are held in his grip.

The hands of Kerensky are squeezing together

Into a bunch our aortas and lips.

This is not night, not rain, not a chorus

Of tearing acclaim for him, swelled to a roar—

This is the blinding leap to the Forum

From catacombs wanting an exit before.

It is not roses, not Ups, not the roaring

Crowd—it’s the surf on Theatre Square,

Marking the end of the long sleep of Europe,

Proud of her own reawakening here.