Spring bursts violently br into Moscow houses. br Moths flutter about br crawl on summer hats, br and furs hide secretly. br br Pots of wallflowers and stock br stand, in the window, just, br of wooden second storeys, br the rooms breathe liberty, br the smell of attics is dust. br br The street is friends br with the bleary glass, br and white night and sunset br at one, by the river, pass. br br In the passage you’ll know br what’s going on below br and April’s casual flow br of words with drops of thaw. br br It’s a thousand stories veiled br in a human sadness, br and twilight along the fence br grows chill with the tale. br br Outside, or snug at home br the same fire and hesitation: br everywhere air’s unsure. br The same cut willow twigs, br br the same white swell of buds, br at crossroads, windows above, br in streets, and workshop-doors. br br Then why does the far horizon weep br in mist, and the soil smell bitter? br After all, it’s my calling, surely, br to see no distance is lonely, br and past the town boundary, br to see that earth doesn’t suffer. br br That’s why in early spring br we meet, my friends and I, br and our evenings are – farewell documents, br our gatherings are – testaments, br so the secret stream of suffering br may warm the cold of life.