Some nights, as soon as I lie down,

I’m back in Russia in my dream;

My hands behind my back are bound

They’re taking me to the ravine.

Then I wake up, and from the chair—

Where my wrist watch always lies—

Its glowing face through darkness stares,

Like a gun muzzle in my eyes.

It’s aimed at me; now it will fire!

I cover my head and neck, aghast,

But from the dimly lighted dial

My glance away I dare not cast.

And then the rhythmic ticking sound

Calms down my benumbed mind

The fortunate exile I found

Around me is safely twined.

And yet, my heart would still desire

To make it true, this Russian scene:

The starry sky, a gunshot fired,

White hackberries in the ravine!