The Stranger - Aleksandr Blok

In the evenings, above the restaurants,
The air is hot and thick and wild,
And with drunken cries
A putrid springtime spirit rules.

Far away, above the dust of side streets,
Above the tedium of country cottages,
The bakery-pretzel shines slightly golden
And the crying of a child is heard.

And every evening, past the barriers,
Tipping their bowler hats,
Well-tried wits go strolling with ladies
Along the canals.

Oarlocks creak above the lake,
And a woman's shriek is heard;
In the sky, accustomed to everything,
The [moon’s] disc bends senselessly.

And every evening, I see my only friend
Reflected in my glass,
And, like me, he's numbed and subdued
By the tart, astringent liquid.

Nearby, at the neighboring tables,
Sleepy waiters hang around,
And drunkards with the eyes of rabbits
Cry “in vino veritas!"

And every evening, at the appointed hour
(Or do I only dream it?)
A girlish form, wrapped in silks,
Moves in the misty window.

And slowly moving through the drunkards,
Always alone, without escorts,
Exhaling perfumes and vapors,
She sits next to the window.

And ancient superstitions flutter
From her supple silks,
From her hat, with its feathers of mourning,
from her slender hand, with its rings.

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Aleksandr [Alexandrovich] Blok (1880 - 1921) Russia
Translated by John Kenneth MacKay
Source: Inscription and Modernity: From Wordsworth to Mandelstam by John Kenneth MacKay, Indiana University Press, 2006