On a casual lover's shoulder

And there is nothing at all – neither fear,
nor a stiffening before the executioner.
I lay my head upon the hollowed block,
as on a casual lover's shoulder.

Roll, curly head, over the planed boards,
mind you don't get a splinter in your parted lips –
the boards bruise your temples, the trumpets
sound solemnly in your ears;

the polished copper dazzles you,
the horses' manes toss, –
O, what a day to die on!

Another day dawns sunless,  

and in the semi-dark – either
through sleepiness, some ancient madness,
or new apocrypha – my lover's shoulder
still smells to me of pine shavings.  



Translated from the Russian by Daniel Weissbort