Gleb Shulpyakov

Moscow! a fireproof box
of my heavenly recompense—
a polished hog went missing
in the weeds of the barren square.

Capital lions stride through
Roman ruins on the Manezh,
high-rise cranes carry transoms
of hotel "Moscow" into the sky.

You put on a rubber raincoat
and never touch the ground.
I was an unskillful storyteller:
palms in brick dust.

Sew me up, like a military
package in some lining—Moscow!
and race into the sky, like prisoners
from half a century ago, clouds.

translated from the Russian by Christopher Mattison