On a sleigh, padded with straw, <br />Barely covered by the fateful mat, <br />From the Vorobevy hills to the familiar chapel <br />We rode through enormous Moscow. <br /> <br /> <br />But in Uglich, the children play mumbletypeg, <br />And it smells of bread left in the oven. <br />They carry me along the streets without my hat; <br />In the oratory three candles burn. <br /> <br /> <br />Not three burning candles -- three meetings. <br />One consecrated by God Himself. <br />A fourth would never be, but Rome is far -- <br />And He was never fond of Rome. <br /> <br /> <br />The sled dashed through black ruts, <br />People were returning from the promenade. <br />Wretched peasants with their angry wives <br />Cracked seeds by the gate. <br /> <br /> <br />The damp distance blackened with flocks of birds, <br />The bound hands swelled. They carry the Carevich, <br />The body grows terribly numb, <br />They set fire to the reddened straw.<br /><br />Osip Emilevich Mandelstam<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-sleigh-padded-with-straw/
