The four-уеаг old,

Eyes icy cold,

Eyebrows, fated already …

Today for the first time

You see the ice-floe

From the Kremlin heights;

Look below.

The ice-floe, ice-floe

And cupolas.

Ringing of gold, gold

And silvery tone.

With your arms crossed so,

Mouth still.

Eyebrows knitted…—Napoleon,

You study Kremlin hill.

‘Mama—where does the ice go?’

‘Forward—little swan,

Past churches, and palaces, gates below,

Forward, little swan.’

Lovely

Blue eyes now worry:

‘O Marina, you love me?’

‘Surely.’

‘For always?’

‘Yes.’

Sunset—and then

Soon home—again.

And you to the nursery, me—

Me, I shall read—rude letters.

And bite lips—so…

And the ice-floe

Still

Moves below.