Osip Mandelshtam

The body’s gift: what shall I do with it,

So integral, so mine, until I’m through with it?

For the twin joys of breathing and of living

To whom ought I to offer my thanksgiving?

I am the gardener and I too the flower,

I’m not alone in the world’s prison tower.

Eternity’s glass pane, touched with my breath,

Reveals an imprint of my body’s warmth.

The gentlest pattern will arise on it,

And lo – there’s now no recognizing it.

While murky moments melt and dribble,

the sweet pattern remains, indelible.

1909

Translated by Philip Nikolayev