Translation of “Встречной” by Aleksandr Blok
I’m nothing but a minstrel-knight,
a northern skald in modern style.
Your husband, though, totes Oscar Wilde,
all gussied up in Scottish stripes—
a dashing, dandyish man-child.
Aren’t they just hysterical,
his paranoiac fantasies?
Rivals live in his head rent-free…
But what is such chimerical
B.S. to one in love, like me!
Artifice, flattery, and betrayal
threaten to devour you whole.
Haven’t you ever in your soul
concealed, as in a Vestal’s veil,
a yearning worth its weight in gold?
Say, does that lazy, jealous goose
silkily murmur, “Come, my sweet,”
swaddling you from ears to feet
in a thick cloak of plaid chartreuse
as you trudge through St. P’s cold sleet?
And—let’s be real—after a dance,
isn’t there in your eyes a glimmer?
When the gas lamps are glowing dimmer
and stars illume your shoulders’ slant,
does on your tongue the waltz still simmer?